


Twilight in Thedas

by Brynneth



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Multi, Plotty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 103,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynneth/pseuds/Brynneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Queen Anora is assassinated, Zevran returns to Ferelden to help Alistair uncover a conspiracy.  Meanwhile, in Kirkwall, Hawke and her friends watch tensions grow between the magi and templars.  In the end, they all must work together as Thedas erupts in a storm of conflict.  Involves many characters from Origins, Awakenings, and DA2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_When Dragon Age 2 came out, I started planning a series that would link the characters and stories from both DAO and DA2.  Needless to say, this will be a big project, and I hope I have the skill and patience to pull it off!  I want to extend a huge thank-you to zevgirl for taking the time to beta for me.  Hugs to everyone who gives me reviews!  They are the lifeline that keeps me writing!  I hope you enjoy the series._

 

 

 

At first, Alistair couldn't determine what had woken him from sleep in the large bedchamber shared with his wife, Anora.  There was simply something... not right.  During the Blight, he had learned to be a light sleeper, to be constantly ready to fight or flee, to trust his instincts.  Old habits died hard, even after living in a castle surrounded by guards for seven years.  It was Alistair who had always woken first when their son had still been an infant who cried at night.  It was Alistair who woke early in the morning to practice his physical training drills before meeting with his seneschal to plan the day.  Anora would usually rise later, after the delicious scents of pastries and ham wafted through the palace corridors.  In the early days of their marriage, Alistair had teased her by saying that a herd of brontos could storm the courtyard while she slept right through it.  She had responded with her usual lack of humor, which became more pronounced over the years.

 

Alistair lay perfectly still, listening for any unusual sounds or movement.  The window was open slightly, letting in the cool summer breeze, and a gleam of moonlight fell upon the floor.  He could hear Anora's soft breathing behind him, but otherwise the room was quiet.  That uneasy sense of wrongness persisted, raising the hairs on his neck.  Slowly, he started to reach for his sword, which he kept tucked under the bed mattress for easy access, with only the hilt protruding.  He didn't move fast enough.

 

There was a whoosh of air at his back and then he was rolling, honed reflexes pushing his body before his mind could even grasp a thought.  Even as his bare feet reached the floor, his hand had grasped the pommel of his sword and was pulling it from beneath the mattress.  He had barely a glimpse of a dark shadow leaping across the bed from the other side, _Anora's_ side.  This thought flitted through his brain and then he had the sword up, parrying a blow that came with enough force to knock him to the ground.  Rolling swiftly, he kicked out as the figure lunged down with a dagger directed at his chest.  The attacker tripped and fell forward hard, giving Alistair the chance he desperately needed.  Without even a flicker of hesitation, he drove his sword straight though the attacker's back, holding the pommel firmly as blood spurted around his hand.  For a few breaths he waited, then jerked the sword out while stumbling to his feet.

 

The entire attack had lasted mere seconds, only the tiniest fraction of a mortal's life span.  And it changed the future of Thedas forever.

 

******

 

As Commander of the Palace Guard, Kylon had a fairly easy life.  The days of having to break up bar fights and clearing outlaws from the back alleys of Denerim were happily behind him.  Most of his time consisted of overseeing the training of new recruits and assigning duties from behind a generously-sized desk.  During the occasional state affairs, he organized protection for the royal family, but these were infrequent since Anora abhorred travel.  Most official gatherings were held in the Palace, making security quite easy to maintain.  It was the perfect life for a seasoned veteran of the militia.  Later on that fateful day of Anora's assassination, he would reflect on the fact that perfection never lasts.

 

He woke to the sound of shouts and banging on the door of his bedroom in the barracks.  The night watch captain looked pale as snow while he stammered out that the queen had been killed.  Stunned and hoping that his men were just playing some kind of hoax on him, he hurriedly dressed and followed the captain into the palace.  All hope shattered at the sight of his king, kneeling on the floor of the hallway outside his son's room, holding the frightened boy with bloodied hands.  When Alistair saw Kylon, he murmured soft words to his son, Duncan, named after Alistair's Warden mentor, and pushed him gently into the arms of the boy's tutor who led him away from the grisly scene.  Alistair rose and turned to Kylon, and the older man gasped at the sight of his king still in his bloody nightclothes.

 

"My Lord!  What... what has happened?"  His voice shook, and he fought to steady himself.  Alistair gestured toward the royal couple's bedroom, across the hall from Duncan's.  Dread coiled in his stomach, and Kylon entered the room and surveyed the scene in horror.  Lamps had been lit and strewn around on various tables, casting wavering shadows over streaks and pools of blood.  On the bed, still covered by a thin sheet, lay Anora, a circle of crimson marking the sheet directly above her breast.  The assassin lay face down on the floor, blood congealed on the black leather armor he wore and still dripping to the floor beneath.  A pointed ear emerged from a lock of black hair, designating the assassin as an elf.

 

"He almost succeeded in leaving Duncan without parents," said Alistair from behind Kylon.  His voice had the dull monotone of shock.  "I was simply lucky, I guess."

 

The watch captain entered the room.  "Ser, the assassin killed several of our men, as well.  All of the men guarding the halls to this area of the palace, in fact.  We are attempting to ascertain how he entered."  The captain's face was pale and drawn, and his eyes looked pleadingly to Kylon, as if the Commander could somehow wake them all from this terrible dream.  _But even dreams don't have this much blood_ , he thought bleakly.  Stiffly, he turned and knelt on the floor before his king.

 

"My Lord, I have failed you and your queen.  My life is yours."  He stared at the floor, awaiting the blow of justice he knew he deserved.

 

"Get up, Kylon.  I've seen enough death tonight."  Alistair grabbed his shoulder and pulled Kylon to his feet.  "I'm more interested in finding out how this assassin got in here than in mounting your head."  The king walked over to the elf's corpse and nudged him so that he lay face up.  The assassin's blade fell from his hand, and Alistair crouched down to examine it.

 

"Kylon, have a look at this."  He beckoned for the commander, and Kylon knelt beside him.  The dagger was well made, the blade of red steel and the hilt of silverite engraved with a gold symbol.  Kylon drew in his breath sharply.

 

"My Lord, it's a crow!"  The golden image shimmered in the light of the lamps.

 

"Yes, it is," agreed Alistair grimly.  "Apparently, the infamous assassin guild of Antiva has a bone to pick with us."

 

*****

 

Summer nights in Antiva City tended to be muggy, and those who were wise never went outside at night without wearing light linen trousers and long-sleeved tunics.  Tourists inevitably learned this the hard way when they woke up the following morning covered in insect bites.  Zevran sat at a small table in the back of an outdoor garden, lazily watching a group of unwary women sitting nearby.  Half-drunk and laughing boisterously, the young ladies were all dressed in sleeveless, low-cut dresses in bright colors of every hue.  They carried fans to ward off the heat, not that they helped much in the humid air.  The garden was located in the back of his favorite café, and was usually visited only by the quiet locals, since it was far from the central square of the city.  Given that the women provided a rather delightful view, Zevran was inclined to forgive them for the gregarious noise.  They would pay for the show of skin in the morning after the insects had their feast.

 

A server dressed in black approached Zevran and placed a goblet of red wine on the table.  Bowing deeply, he disappeared as silently as he had arrived.  Zevran twirled the stem absently, while watching one of the women lean over to grab her napkin from the ground.  _Such a nice bosom and still young and firm_ , he thought appreciatively.  The woman happened to meet Zevran's gaze as she sat up and smiled coyly while tracing one finger enticingly along the neckline of her dress.  Returning the smile, Zevran raised his glass in salute and drank deeply of the wine.  The woman raised her own glass to him and giggling, returned her attention to her friends.

 

From their accent, he guessed that they were from Orlais.  Most likely, they were noblewomen enjoying their youth before their parents married them off to the highest bidder.  Such women were often terribly easy to entice into his bed.  As he toyed with the idea of approaching the group, their voices floated across the air, and he heard a few words that gave him serious pause.

 

"... death of Queen Anora in Ferelden?"

 

"Why, yes!  I heard that it was a Crow assassin from right here in Antiva!"  As if suddenly aware that it would not be suitable to speak in such a way of the Guild in their own land, the offending lady lowered her voice, forcing Zevran to listen more closely.

 

"I guess that leaves poor King Alistair all alone with his young son, who is only five!"  The women all assumed the appropriate looks of pity.

 

"I wonder if there's any chance the king might be willing to remarry a woman from Orlais," mused another of the ladies.  "Can you imagine?  A chance to become a queen?"  The women giggled and waved their fans in excitement.

 

Zevran stood abruptly and drained his wine in one long gulp.  Leaving the fare along with a generous tip on the table, he passed by the women on his way out of the garden.  The promiscuous woman who had saluted him earlier looked up hopefully as he neared, but the elf was too lost in his thoughts to notice.

 

*****

 

When Zevran had returned to Antiva seven years ago, he had searched hard for exactly the kind of home he wanted.  When he had lived there before the Blight, he had been a guild assassin of no rank, forced to share a cramped apartment with Taliesin.  When he returned, he had money given to him by the royal court of Denerim as payment for his service to the Wardens.  It had by no means left him rich, but it did give him the option of bidding on a beautiful studio loft situated on the upper floor of a home by the harbor.  The loft was small, but the view of Rialto Bay made it well worth the money.  The studio also boasted a balcony with a small circular stairway that led to the roof, a pleasant place for spending a summer evening gazing at the stars.

 

Tonight, however, enjoying the stars and the lights from the boats on the water gave Zevran no peace.  When he closed his eyes, he was no longer standing on a roof overlooking Rialto Bay, but on the roof of Fort Drakon, surrounded by the screams of dying men and women fighting a battle with a deadly dragon.  Ferelden... Denerim... Alistair.  _Why should I care about a country not my own, or a man I no longer fight beside_?  And yet, he could not deny the twinge in his chest when he had heard the women speaking of Alistair alone.  Where was the Hero of Ferelden?  Where was Rielle Surana?

 

The name sent a shiver through him, and unconsciously, he clenched his fists.  Even now, seven years later, his memory of her still affected him so strongly.  But she had turned from him and chose Alistair, who she then placed on the throne.  She had sealed her own fate; Ferelden was not ready for an elven queen.  Perhaps she had hoped that Alistair would continue to tryst with her, even after his marriage to Anora.  A foolish wish that would have been, as chivalrous and moral as Alistair was.  Whatever it was that she had hoped for, Alistair had reluctantly turned from her and accepted the marriage to Anora, leaving Rielle to flee to Amaranthine.  Belatedly, she had asked Zevran to accompany her, but he refused; one heartbreak was enough.

 

And so, he had returned home in secret, determined to win his freedom from the Crows who hunted him.  It had taken three years and three dead guild masters, but he had won at last.  They left him alone now, deeming that it was more wasteful to lose masters than to kill one renegade.  They tried instead to ruin him financially, threatening anyone who wished to hire him.  But Zevran's reputation was too solid to destroy.  He took difficult contracts, ones that most Crow masters decided were too risky to accept.  More importantly, he always managed to fulfill these contracts, no matter how difficult they were.  He was the best assassin in the city and the most expensive to hire.  There were always offers to consider, and he fared well enough to live as he wished.

 

It was disturbing to learn that a Crow had attacked the Queen of Ferelden.  Political attacks of such high risk were usually refused by the Guild.  He could only wonder at the motive and the identity of the client.  And Alistair was now left to rule alone.  He mused sardonically that such a situation probably pleased Eamon, Alistair's advisor.  Eamon had never liked the daughter of Loghain; she had too much of a mind of her own.  No doubt Eamon would enjoy having sole influence over Alistair.

 

Such things were no longer his concern.  He had left them all behind:  Ferelden, Alistair, and Rielle.  It would be best to leave the past be, and he knew this.  So why was he staring at the stars and remembering more pleasant times spent with the companions of Rielle and Alistair?  He almost smiled at the memory of teasing Alistair with Morrigan, and remembered fondly the drinking contests with Oghren.  And Leliana, lovely Leliana, who enchanted everyone with her voice.  Shale, who always tried to squash birds when Rielle wasn't looking.  Sten, whom Zevran had seen smile only once, when he had discovered the wonder of a cookie.  Even Wynne... well okay, he didn't really miss Wynne and her lectures.  But she had been fun to tease and flirt with.

 

Enough.  The past was the past, and Alistair could handle his own problems.  Shaking his head, Zevran started to walk toward the stairs to his balcony, but a sudden wind whipped his golden hair across his face.  Brushing it back, he saw a crow, a very large crow, sitting on the roof directly in front of him.  The crow cocked its head and stared at him with bright, beady eyes.  Not many things gave Zevran pause, but this crow was exceedingly strange and he shivered minutely.  Then, the crow seemed to almost shimmer, like sunlight on the ripples of a pool, and suddenly before Zevran stood a tall, fierce-looking woman with white hair fashioned into the shape of horns.  Her eyes were a deep gold, and she wore a silver headdress and silver earrings.  Feeling as if he was moving _far_ too slow, Zevran drew his daggers, and the woman laughed.

 

"Zevran Arainai.  You have already helped to kill me once.  Do you seek to do it again?"  She raised one eyebrow in amusement while Zevran assumed a defensive stance.  "Come now, assassin.  Surely this time we can talk like adults?"

 

"My dear lady, I am quite certain I have not encountered you before."  Zevran gripped his daggers tighter.  "If I had, I am sure I would remember such an astonishing transformation."

 

The woman threw her head back and laughed.  "I can be many things and many beings, Zevran Arainai.  But perhaps you might remember me better in this form?"  As she spoke, her body shrunk and shriveled, and her hair turned gray.  Her eyes darkened to brown and she looked no fiercer than an aged grandmother.  Zevran slowly lowered his blades in shock.

 

"You are Flemeth?  But I am certain that we killed you, did we not?"  This was definitely turning out to be a rather interesting evening full of visitations from the past.

 

The woman lifted a corner of her lips.  "Oh, you most certainly did.  At least, you and your friends managed to kill one part of me.  But I have lived long enough to have more than one life in me, young man."  She walked up to him and touched his cheek with one long bony finger.  Zevran tried to move away but found that he was paralyzed.  She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

 

"Ah, you do not trust me, but in truth, you shouldn't.  Have you ever trusted anyone, Zevran?"  She waved her hand towards the heart of Antiva City.  "Not here, I am sure.  But in Ferelden, perhaps?"

 

Zevran found that he could still speak at least.  "Ferelden is past, witch.  And one does not need to trust to live."

 

"True.  But one does need to trust to love.  And what is life without love?  Or so they say."  She moved away to stand at the edge of the roof and stared out over the harbor.  "The world is changing, Zevran Arainai, and you will change with it.  If you do not, you will blow away like dust in the wind.  Is that the kind of fate you wish for?"

 

"I can be as flexible as I need to be, my lady."

 

"Indeed?"  Flemeth turned to face him.  "Then face your destiny, Arainai.  Do not run from what you must do.  We all have a purpose in this world, even an old woman such as myself."  She smiled slowly, her eyes narrowing.

 

"And what would your purpose be, I wonder?"

 

"Ah, if I could answer that question fully and completely, I would be as the Maker Himself."  Turning her back to Zevran, she walked to the very edge of the rooftop.  "If you trust no one, trust yourself.  Face the shadows in your heart and make your choice, Zevran Arainai.  Make it a wise one."  Once again, her form shimmered and became that of a large crow.  Looking back at Zevran, the crow winked one black eye, spread its wings, and was gone.

 

Taking in a sharp breath, Zevran found that he could move again.  Lost in thought, he walked to the same spot Flemeth had just left and stared out into the night.

 

*****

 

The breezes over the waters of Lake Calenhad tended to keep the Circle Tower cool during the summer months.  From her office on the second floor, a small narrow window allowed the First Enchanter to look out over the water to the Docks.  Although the window could be opened to let in the cool air, heavy steel bars criss-crossed the opening, preventing any attempt to escape should any mage be foolhardy enough to try.  The First Enchanter sighed, remembering her younger days when she had actually considered this option.  Even though she accepted her place here, had actually consented to return to this tower, it still felt like the cage it was.

 

In older days, the tower had been called Kinloch Hold and was built by the Avvars, the ancient ancestors of the Fereldens.  For years, it had stood unconquered until the Tevinters finally breached its walls and killed everyone within.  For many years, the tower lay empty, and the people who lived on the banks of the lake claimed that it was haunted by the defeated Avvars.  The magi dispelled these rumors and took the tower as their home, and the templars followed as their guardians.  Now, both orders coexisted side by side, living together in increasing disharmony.

 

After the battle with Uldred and his followers, things had steadily deteriorated in the Circle.  Despite the efforts of Irving and Greagoir, the templars grew less tolerant and more aggressive toward the remaining magi.  The uprising had fulfilled every templar's worst nightmare:  blood mages turning against their guardians.  Irving labored to reestablish the magi's reputation but little was accomplished before his death four years after the Blight.  That was when Greagoir had come to her, to ask that she take the position of First Enchanter.  His hope, he explained, was that her reputation would ease the tensions between the magi and the templars.  She almost refused. 

 

"I am finally free of that place, Knight-Commander.  Why would I wish to return?  Here, I have freedom.  The Tower is nothing more than a fancy prison, and you know this."

 

He had sighed and rubbed his face with a battle-calloused hand.  "I know that the magi feel that way.  But after what happened with Uldred, can you see why templars are necessary?  We need you, my Lady.  The tower needs you.  No one else has the strength of character to defend the magi and rebuild what they have lost.  If the delicate balance between mage and templar is lost, what will happen then?"  His eyes had pleaded for her understanding.  Even so, it took three days to reach her decision.  She had already lost so much; did her freedom truly matter in the greater scheme of things?  Reluctantly, she had returned with him to her former home, her former prison.

 

Three years now she had lived and worked here, spending as much time as possible with each mage in the Tower.  She spent equal time with the templars, even going as far as to wander the halls, exchanging pleasantries with the guards.  Slowly, she gained their respect, and most seemed to like her.  The recent memory of the uprising still tainted the Tower, but steadily, she was managing to restore the balance once again.  Until now.

 

The events in Kirkwall had filtered down to Ferelden, and taverns across the country were buzzing with the news of the viscount's death, the battle with the Qunari, and the subsequent takeover by Knight-Commander Meredith.  The magi in Ferelden had long been aware that the treatment of their northern brethren was much harsher than their own.  With the templar commander now in charge, it did not bode well for the Circle in Kirkwall.  She couldn't even walk through the Circle library anymore without overhearing the hushed whispers of Kirkwall's situation among her magi.  She had begun to fear that all her work would come to nothing, if the templars decided to enact the same moves here.

 

Then, only a few weeks prior, had come the news of the Queen's assassination.  Her first instinct was to race to Denerim, to offer Alistair what comfort she could.  But that relationship no longer existed, and she found herself reluctant to reopen old wounds.  There was little doubt that Eamon would be there to support the king and others as well.  She had given up her claim to Alistair long ago.

 

A soft knock sounded at the door of her office.  "Enter!"  she called.

 

A young man, lanky and tall, with rakish red hair tentatively entered the room.  He gave a short bow when she smiled at him.

 

"Enough of the formalities, Connor.  What can I help you with?"  The years had been kind to this man, once a boy possessed by a demon.  Even after seven years, he retained no memory of the fateful events that had brought him here from his home in Redcliffe.  How she wished her own memory of that day could be erased!  She still could not look upon his face without seeing Isolde suspended in mid-air, blood exploding from her chest.

 

"A letter has arrived for you, my Lady."  He extended a small envelope sealed with red wax.  "Enchanter Petra asked that I bring it to you immediately."  As she took the letter, her eyes glanced over the wax seal, and her heart sank a little.

 

"Many thanks, Connor.  You may be excused to return to your lessons."  The man gave another brief bow and retreated quietly, closing the door behind him.

 

She moved over to the open window while carefully breaking the seal of the Circle of Kirkwall and opened the letter.  A gentle waft of air cooled her face as she rapidly scanned the contents.

 

 _My fellow Enchanter,_

 _It grieves me to send you this message, but I can no longer hesitate to send warning to the Circles of Thedas.  By now, you have heard the grave news from my city of Kirkwall.  I am afraid it is true; the city is now under the control of the templars, headed by Knight-Commander Meredith.  In order to protect my people, I have been cautious in the past, but that time is coming to an end.  I can no longer stand by while mages are being wrongfully persecuted.  What the future holds for Kirkwall, I cannot be certain.  But I have come to my own decision to fight for our rights.  This will undoubtedly affect the Circles throughout Thedas, and for this, I apologize.  I would ask that you stand in support of the Circle of Kirkwall if at all possible._

 _I will be seeking what help I can find from those who may be sympathetic to our cause.  The Champion of Kirkwall is herself a mage, and I hope to obtain her support in this.  I would advise that you also look for whatever aid may be available to you.  The coming days will be dark, indeed, and I pray to the Maker, that His mercy may prevail._

 _With all sincerity,_

 _Orsino_

For a long time, she stood at the window, staring down at the blue ripples of the lake.  Ferelden had seen enough war already; could this country handle yet another conflict so soon after the Blight?  Her hands gripped the windowsill, and she bowed her head in contemplation.  It seemed that they would have no choice.  Fate had already decided, and events were in motion.  She, First Enchanter Rielle Surana, Hero of Ferelden, would face the future with whatever strength she could find. __


	2. Chapter 2

Zevran detested Kirkwall.  How could anyone enjoy living in a city full of statues and murals depicting suffering slaves?  Even the rustic, muddy sprawl of Denerim was preferable to this.  He had been here years ago on a mission to kill a mercenary who had stupidly attempted to cheat the Crows.  There didn't seem to be much change except for the new statue at the docks depicting a victorious soldier holding a flaming sword aloft while one boot rested on the head of the Arishok.  He supposed that it was supposed to represent the famed Champion of Kirkwall.

 

Discreet inquiries made on the streets of Antiva City had led him here to the most prosperous city in the Free Marches.  Apparently, the contract to assassinate Queen Anora had been finalized here.  It was the only scrap of information he had been able to obtain from his contacts.  Few Crows wished to discuss such a sensitive subject, and even his oldest acquaintances among the Guild shied away from admitting any knowledge.  It had been risky to even approach them, but when had Zevran ever avoided risks?

 

His first few days were frustratingly fruitless.  What few contacts he had there had apparently gone into hiding or left the city.  He spent his nights in the Blooming Rose, relishing the familiarity of a whorehouse.  Although he was approached with many offers, he politely refused them.  Now was not the time for casual dalliances.  He wanted to secure the information he sought, and then leave with as little trace as possible.  Bedding whores only increased his chance of discovery.

 

Unfortunately, one of his contacts in Antiva must have betrayed him.  On the third day, the proprietress of the brothel drew him aside and let him know that a group of men had arrived in town and was asking questions about an elven assassin with distinct tattoos on his left cheek.  He tipped her generously for the information and stealthily made his way out of the city.  An acquaintance in the elven alienage had informed him that a Dalish clan was staying near Sundermount, and he headed for their camp.

 

Over the years, Zevran had made numerous forays into the wilds to seek the Dalish.  At first, these visits were prompted by his wish to learn of his mother's people.  He found that they were wise in many skills that pertained to his profession, and he made a habit of going to visit various clans for a few months at a time, learning the art of tracking and hunting.  Many of the Dalish still considered him a flat-ear, an outsider; but his presence was tolerated since he showed due respect for their ways.

 

He was lucky; this was a tribe he had visited before, the Sabrae clan.  They welcomed him and asked him to share dinner that evening.  The Dalish children, being a curious lot, surrounded him and begged for some of his amusing anecdotes, which he readily related.  Storytelling was a pastime that Zevran did not get to indulge in frequently, and children always made the best audience.  As the night grew old, and the parents took their children to bed, Zevran settled down at the fire with the Keeper.

 

"Keeper Marethari, your hospitality is greatly appreciated, and the dinner was excellent.  _Ma serannas_."

 

The elder elf gave a regal nod.  "Your presence is always a welcome distraction from daily life, _lethallin_.  The children have much curiosity about the world beyond our aravels, and your tales give them much pleasure."

 

"I am happy to entertain them.  But tell me Keeper, where is your First?"

 

A look of pain twisted Marethari's face.  "She has left us and gone her own way.  I sent her away with the Champion several years ago."

 

"Indeed?"  Zevran wisely refrained from asking as to the reason for Merrill's dismissal, but he wondered at such a strange decision.  "I have heard much of this Champion.  You have met her?"

 

"She brought me a gift years ago, before she was called the Champion.  She was a mage who gave her name as Hawke.  Merrill performed the necessary ritual on this gift and then left with her at my suggestion."  The Keeper looked away sadly.  "It was difficult, but necessary.  Merrill could no longer stay with us; she was upsetting the clan."  She closed her eyes briefly, then turned back to Zevran.  "And you, _lethallin_?  What brings you here?"

 

"I do not know if you have heard, but Ferelden's queen was killed last month."  Marethari nodded and gestured to him to continue.  "The assassin was a Crow, and the trail led to Kirkwall.  I was attempting to learn more in the city, but I have enemies who have followed me."

 

"So you wish to stay with us?  You want our protection?"

 

"No, Keeper.  I will not endanger your clan.  If you will allow me, I will seek a camp in the mountains near here while I investigate."

 

"There is a cave up the side of Sundermount that you may find useful.  It is dry and sheltered."

 

" _Ma serannas_ , Keeper."  He bowed his head in thanks.  "If these men should come looking for me, do not hide me from them.  You may tell them the location of the cave, and I will deal with them myself."

 

She nodded in agreement.  " _Ma nuvenin_.  I will honor your request.  For tonight, you may sleep in our guest aravel, and tomorrow I will send a hunter to show you the way."  She rose slowly and gave him a short bow.  " _Dareth shiral_ , Zevran Arainai.  Sleep well."

 

" _Dareth shiral_ , Keeper.  _Ma serannas_."  He bowed back deeply and followed another elf to the aravel they had prepared for him.

 

*****

 

Sigrun whistled merrily as she walked the halls of Vigil's Keep.  It was a late summer day, and the weather had been perfect for a shopping day in Amaranthine.  To make the day even better, she had run across a beautifully crafted spyglass in the market, and it was priced low enough for her to purchase.  Her old spyglass, gifted to her by Rielle, had been destroyed in the battle at the Keep, but this one would be a perfect replacement.  She could hardly wait to climb to the roof of the Keep and try it out.  However, she needed to report to the Warden Commander.  One of the new recruits had said he wished to meet with her upon her return.

 

She knocked cheerfully at the door to the Commander's office and entered without waiting for a reply.  They had both joined the Wardens at roughly the same time and had fought together in the final battle against the darkspawn and the Mother.  Although the Commander preferred that his authority be respected in public, formalities had a tendency to disappear in private.

 

She wrinkled her nose as she entered the room, the putrid scent informing her that Oghren was also present.  Sure enough, he was sprawled on a chaise near the Commander's desk, a customary mug of poisonous ale in his fist.  Sigrun rolled her eyes at the Commander and shook her head.

 

"How can you stand the smell of him in here with the door closed?"  She moved to the nearest window and shoved it open.  "Whew!  It's too beautiful a day to be cooped up in here with that stink!"

 

"Hey!" protested Oghren grumpily.  "I'll have you know, lass, that I bathed not two days ago."

 

"Oh really?  Was that when you were home visiting your wife and son?  I know you don't bother to bathe yourself when you're here!"  She sniffed and crossed her arms, glaring down at him.

 

"Okay, you two.  Yes, we agree that Oghren did bathe two days ago.  And yes, we also agree that he still stinks like yesterday's garbage."  There was an offended grunt from Oghren.  "However, I did not call both of you in here to discuss this."  Nathaniel Howe, Commander of the Ferelden Grey and Arl of Amaranthine rose from behind his desk.  He moved to the front and sat on the edge with his arms crossed.  "I'm assuming the both of you have heard of the Champion of Kirkwall?"

 

Sigrun waved a hand dismissively.  "Who hasn't?  She led the defense against the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall and apparently discovered some new, ancient thaig in the Deep Roads several years ago."

 

Nathaniel nodded.  "Exactly.  Sigrun, you have traveled the Deep Roads more than any of us.  What do you know of this new thaig?"

 

Sigrun shook her head.  "From what I've heard, this one is called Primeval Thaig.  It dates back from before the Memories.  The Champion and her expedition are the only ones who have ever been there."

 

"I have also heard that there are no darkspawn there," said Nathaniel.

 

"Yup, that's what I heard also," Oghren chimed in.  "Imagine... a part of the Deep Roads where you don't have to worry about some ugly broodmother sending her horde after you."  He raised his mug in salute and belched.

 

Nathaniel wrinkled his patrician nose in distaste.  "I think it may be worthwhile to take a trip down there and look around.  Maybe there's a reason why there are no darkspawn there... something we can use in our fights against them."

 

Sigrun clapped her hands in excitement.  "An adventure!  Perfect!  You _are_ taking me with you, right?"  Her smile faltered as Nathaniel shook his head.

 

"Sigrun, I need you here.  You're my second-in-command.  The Keep is under your authority while I'm gone."  Sigrun growled moodily, kicking the floor with a dusty boot.  "I'll take a small contingent of our men and leave next week for Kirkwall.  Oghren will assist you with the management of things around here while I'm gone."

 

Oghren chortled into his brew while Sigrun glared at him.  "Fine.  But I'm the one in charge!"

 

Oghren looked up at Nathaniel.  "What about this assassination of the queen we heard about?  Should we be leaving now with all that going on?"

 

Nathaniel shrugged.  "Alistair sent a message stating that everything is under control, and they are still investigating the murder.  It doesn't sound like they have any leads yet.  But politics are not our concern; darkspawn are.  I want to check out this Primeval Thaig."

 

"Well, go have your adventure then,” Sigrun pouted.  "But bring back some souvenirs, okay?  It's the least you can do for leaving me with this stinky dwarf!"

 

*****

 

Lia Hawke threw down her cards with a glare at the pirate across the table.  Smirking, Isabela blew her a kiss and gathered the cards from around the table.

 

"Seriously, Isabela.  I can't prove it, but I _know_ you're cheating!"  Lia smacked the arm of the dwarf sitting next to her.  "Varric!  She _is_ cheating, right?"

 

"If she is, she's too quick for me," grumbled the dwarf as he fished in his pouch for money.  He threw two sovereigns on the table with a grunt.  "Damned woman, you're bleeding me dry!"

 

Isabela chuckled.  "If you're gonna play, be prepared to pay!"  She held out her hand to Lia.  "Cough it up, Champion."

 

With a sigh, Lia threw in two sovereigns and glanced over at the guard sitting next to Isabela.  "You're not letting Donnic off the hook, are you?"

 

Donnic frowned and also tossed money on the table.  With a self-satisfied shimmy of her hips, Isabela swept the coins into her waiting belt purse.  "Another game, folks?"

 

Lia stood up.  "Not for me.  I've lost enough to you tonight.  I need to get home and get some rest.  See you all later."  Giving a cursory wave, she headed out the door of the Hanging Man and headed for Hightown.  Although it was now dark, she could feel the summer heat of the day radiating off the pavement.  Nearby, several men in the shadows sent her an interested glance, then turned away after getting a better look.  At least one good thing came from having a ridiculous title like the Champion; people didn't want to mess with you.  Unless they were desperate, that is.

 

As she neared her home, she glanced across the square at the dilapidated mansion currently being occupied by a former elven slave she had come to know too well.  Known, and then lost.  She closed her eyes painfully, flashes of memory ripping through her mind.  Lyrium-lined hands shoving her against the stone wall... warm tongue caressing her lips... sharp pain as his teeth closed over her nipple... her sigh of need when he thrust inside... her name, not her last name but her first, groaned from the depths of his throat as he emptied inside of her.  She quickly opened her eyes, driving the images from her mind with practiced force.  _How many times do I have to tell myself it's in the past, so just forget it_?

 

It seemed that her feet didn't agree with her brain.  Seconds later, she found herself at his door, knocking.  When no one answered, she opened the door, frowning to find that as usual, it wasn't locked.  Fenris always refused to secure the mansion, stating that his sword was all the protection he needed.  Indeed, no sooner had she entered the main hall when a large blade swung from around the doorway and stopped inches from her throat.  She reached out and grabbed the hand around the pommel, pushing the sword away.

 

"It's just me, Fenris.  Don't get your skin all riled up and blue."

 

"You should announce yourself better, Hawke," said the elf in his deep voice that still sent shivers down her spine.  "I could have killed you."

 

"And put yourself out of your misery?  What would you do without me to bother you all the time?"  She headed up the stairs towards his bedroom, noting that the house was still in the same disarray as when they first discovered it.  Fenris never bothered to clean, which was a source of endless frustration for her.  She threw him a glare over her shoulder as he trailed up the stairs behind her.  "At least hire a maid to clean this place.  I know you have enough money from your mercenary work."

 

"Did you come here to complain about my house?"  Fenris seated himself at the wooden table near the lit fireplace.

 

Lia sighed and dragged her hand over her face.  "No, I didn't, and I'm sorry.  I just..."  She shook her head and took a seat across the table from him.  "Do you realize that I haven't even been here to visit in a year?"

 

Fenris dropped his gaze to the floor.  "I don't exactly blame you after... that night."  His hand clenched involuntarily, and she resisted the urge to take it between her own and hold it to her cheek.  Her heart ached for him, for them both.  _Why does he have to be so stubborn_?

 

"Have you found out anything about your sister?"

 

He looked back up at her.  "Yes, I have sent her a letter, and she is on her way here, to Kirkwall.  She has agreed to meet me."

 

She smiled.  "Fenris, that's wonderful!  You have found your family at last!"  His face remained impassive, and she raised her eyebrow at him.  "Somehow, you don't seem quite as excited as I thought you would be."

 

"It may be a trap.  I can't help but fear that Danarius is behind this."

 

"Then I'll go with you.  Maybe we'll bring a few of the others.  We can handle Danarius, Fenris.  This is too important an opportunity for you to miss."  She did break through her hesitation then, reaching out and taking his hand in hers.  She was relieved when he didn't flinch.

 

"That would be... greatly appreciated, Hawke.  And more than I deserve."  The sea of green in his eyes held far too much sadness.  One day soon, she was going to find a way to erase it, whether he allowed it or not.

 

"You always deserve more, my friend," she whispered regretfully.  Raising his hand to her lips, she kissed it softly.  Before he could reply, she turned and left.

 

*****

 

Alistair stood quietly in the corner of the palace garden beneath the shadow of a great oak.  Some distance away, his son was playing by the fountain with his boat.  Late afternoon sunlight dappled on the water, and ripples flowed in ever-increasing circles from the splashes Duncan made.  It was a peaceful scene, one of few in the midst of a turbulent, violent summer.

 

Alistair's heart ached for his son.  After a few weeks of nightmares, Duncan had swiftly recovered from the death of his mother.  He still asked where she was, however, not understanding that death was final and absolute.  _How would the boy fare growing up without a mother_?  He sighed.  The argument could be made that he himself had survived the same plight.  The thought didn't make him feel better.

 

As for himself, his feelings were conflicted and confused.  In public, Anora was careful to play the dutiful wife, but in private, she made no effort to hide her disdain for Alistair.  He was well aware that she had married him only to merge her lineage with the Theirins.  Even that had taken quite some persuasion from Rielle.  At first, Alistair tried hard to win her respect, if not her love.  He treated her as a friend and a confidant, but she threw his attempts at a relationship back in his face.  Apparently, the only thing he had been able to do right was to give her the son she desired.

 

 _Rielle_.  He leaned against the tree and closed his eyes.  It had been seven years since he had last seen her, but he could still picture her delicate, pale face, lined with wavy black hair brushed behind pointed ears.  He had thought he loved her, but she had ended their relationship by putting him on the throne.  Even then, he had wanted to marry her, make her his queen. 

 

Eamon had been furious, and she had sorrowfully refused.  "It would never stand, Alistair.  The people of Ferelden would never accept an elf as their ruler.  You _know_ this."

 

"So you would have me marry Loghain's daughter, who despises me."  His voice had dripped with bitterness.  "You would turn away from our love?"

 

Tears had coursed down her cheeks.  "Oh, Alistair.  I will always love you, but we are not to be.  The sooner you can accept that, the easier our lives will be."  And she had run from him, without even giving him a chance to answer.  The wedding had occurred a week later, and she avoided him until then.  After the wedding, she had offered her congratulations to the royal couple, and the next day she left for Amaranthine.  He never had the opportunity to speak to her privately again.

 

So he had entered his marriage with as much optimism as he could muster, pushing the bitter dregs of his romance with Rielle behind him.  Anora agreed to share his bed, only to keep up appearances and try for the child she needed to secure the royal line.  Once she had Duncan, all nightly overtures were refused, and Alistair resigned himself to living like a Chantry priest.  After a few years, he gave up trying to obtain Anora's regard.  It was simply too difficult.

 

The sound of twigs snapping behind him brought him to full alert.  Whirling around with his hand on the pommel of his sword, he saw Eamon approaching.  The seneschal raised one hand warily.

 

"It's just me, Alistair."

 

Alistair relaxed his stance.  "Sorry, but I tend to be rather jumpy lately."

 

"Perfectly understandable."  The older man stopped at Alistair's side and looked over at Duncan.  "He seems to be recovering well, don't you think?"

 

"As well as any child would, I suppose," sighed Alistair.  "Any chance you have any information for me regarding the assassin?"

 

"I'm afraid not," Eamon frowned.  "The Crows emphatically deny any involvement and claim that the assassin was an imposter.  But they would say this whether the elf was theirs or not."

 

"I know," murmured Alistair.  "Maker, but I wish Zevran were here.  He would know what to do."

 

"The former Crow who helped you during the Blight?"  Eamon grimaced.  His dislike for elves was well known.  "How do we even know he's not behind this?"

 

Alistair glared at the seneschal.  "Zevran has no motive for killing Anora, and this wasn't his style anyway.  He would do the job himself, not leave it to an obvious amateur."  He shook his head.  "Besides, if it had been Zevran, I would be dead now, not him.  I never could get the upper hand on that rogue."

 

Eamon stared at him searchingly.  "You feel that this assassin was an amateur?"

 

"The Crows are the best killers in Thedas.  If they were behind this, they would have sent their best assassin to kill a royal mark.  I should be dead, and I just can't attribute it to luck that I'm not."  He looked back towards Duncan.  "I'm grateful it wasn't an expert, or Duncan would probably be dead also."

 

"I've been keeping an eye on Kylon and the guards," said Eamon.  "I'm surprised you didn't demand his resignation.  He failed to protect you and your family."

 

"It doesn't matter who's to blame," replied Alistair shortly.  "It only matters that it doesn't happen again.  I'm satisfied that Kylon has stepped up our security."

 

"If you insist.  I would still consider demoting him however, and replacing him with a better candidate."  When Alistair didn't reply, he continued.  "I am going to see Teagan soon, to check on things in Redcliffe.  Do you wish to come?"

 

"No, I think I'll pass.  I want to get to the bottom of this mess before I try to go anywhere.  Tell Teagan we miss him here."

 

"I'll do that.  Have a good evening, Alistair."  The seneschal walked away, leaving Alistair standing alone beneath the oak.  Pushing away his grim thoughts, Alistair joined Duncan at the fountain and together, they pretended to be pirates, sailing the Waking Sea.


	3. Chapter 3

Lia Hawke glared into her mug balefully.  It certainly wasn't the ale's fault that she was in a bad mood, but it definitely wasn't _helping_ like it was supposed to.  After helping Fenris deal with Danarius, she had hoped that staying at the Hanged Man for a few drinks might calm her nerves.

 

"How could Fenris's sister _do_ such a thing?" she grumbled bitterly to no one in particular.

 

Isabela was sitting next to her, flipping a dagger between her fingers thoughtfully.  "Because she's a vile, nughumping, heartless whore?"  At her last word, she drove the tip of the dagger into the wooden tabletop with enough force to throw splinters in Varric's face.

 

"Watch it, Rivaini.  I want to keep my eyes."  The dwarf drained his mug and signaled to the server for another.  "You know, Hawke, I'm starting to think you can never trust family.  Ever."

 

"Well, I _did_ trust my mother," Lia replied.

 

"Yeah, and I don't hear you saying anything about Carver."

 

Lia sighed.  "Well, I don't think he's as bad as Varania and Bartrand."

 

"Give him time, Hawke.  Give him time."  The server arrived with another cup of Varric's favorite brew, and he gave the woman a wink.  Not to be outdone, Isabela blew the confused waitress a kiss.  Lia rolled her eyes as the server smiled nervously and walked away.

 

"Guys.  Come on.  Fenris is probably sitting somewhere hurting, and you're flirting with the barmaid?"  She gave them both a patented Champion glare.

 

"And it's your job to comfort him, sweet thing," replied Isabela.  "After all, he's _your_ man, as much as I wish he were mine."  She sighed dramatically.

 

Lia shook her head.  "Not anymore.  He broke it off with me, remember?"

 

"Yeah, right.  And that's why he sends you so many smoldering looks that it's a wonder your robes haven’t burnt up."  Isabela made a show of raking her eyes over Lia's body.  "I wouldn't mind if there were some holes though..."

 

"I'll bet," grimaced Lia.  She sighed and shoving her mug aside, she laid some coins on the table.  "Well, I'm headed home.  The battle with Danarius drained me, and Fenris getting all vengeful depressed me.  See you guys later, and thanks again for helping."

 

"Anytime, Hawke.  What are a bunch of misfits for?"  Varric lifted his mug in salute and went back to joking with Isabela as Lia left the Hanged Man.

 

It was twilight, and the torches around the city were being lit as she meandered the streets toward home.  She wondered where Fenris had gone after leaving in a blue cloud of fury.  She assumed he was holed up in that dingy mansion he called a home, probably gulping another bottle of wine.  If Fenris didn't stop drinking so much, he was going to turn into a useless drunkard like Uncle Gamlen.  With hatred and anger burning away his soul, he was probably headed in the right direction.  She sighed sorrowfully and wished she knew some way to help.

 

When she reached the Amell estate, she glanced over towards his house, but there were no signs of life, and she was afraid to impose after the way he had stormed out of the Hanged Man.  She opened the door of her home and headed into the main hall.  Bodahn and Sandal had already gone to bed, and a quick check of her desk showed no new mail.  She climbed the stairs wearily, finally starting to feel the effects of the difficult battle with the Tevinter mage and his men.  When she entered her room, she came to an abrupt halt.  Standing by her fireplace with his head resting on a hand draped on the mantle was Fenris.

 

She stood completely still, uncertain of Fenris's mood.  If he was still volatile, he might not be able to control his actions, and she would be in danger with her mana still depleted from the fight.  So she waited with trepidation for him to make the first move.

 

"I'm not sure who the greater fool is.  The person I am now, or the person I used to be."  His deep voice was hoarse and despairing.  "It is... hard to imagine that I actually wanted these."  He threw an arm out to his side, lifting his head to stare down at the lyrium markings twisting over his skin.  "Did I not mind being a slave... then?"  He turned slowly toward Lia, and her heart froze at the sight of his eyes, cold and dead.  "I actually _competed_ to become his bodyguard?"

 

"Fenris..."  She reached out a hand, wanting so much to touch him, to soothe the pain in that pale face.

 

"And my family... didn't even want the freedom I gave them."  He turned away, clenching both fists.  "I have no family.  I am alone."  He stood with his back to her, head bowed in defeat.  For six years, he had waited for this night, his chance to kill Danarius and become truly free.  But it had won him nothing, except bitterness.

 

Lia took a deep breath and moved to stand directly behind him.  "You are wrong.  Do you still not see?"  She reached out and carefully laid her hand against his back.  "You left me, but I have not left you.  I still care for you, Fenris.  Have we not danced around this long enough?  Please, don't make me beg."

 

He turned slowly, and her heart leaped to see a glimmer in his eyes, a flame that had not yet been extinguished.  "You should never have to beg anything from someone like me, Hawke.  I am not worthy."

 

"Oh, but you are!"  She cast away her fears and cupped his face between her hands.  He flinched but did not pull away.  "I love you, damn it."  She felt him tense at the admission, but her hands held his head firmly, not allowing him to turn away.  "I love you for your soul, your angry, frustrating, _passionate_ soul.  I don't care about your past, your former servitude, the fact that you're an elf, or your markings.  I don't even care that you hate mages.  I know you've been hurt and hurt badly, but open up just a little and _let me in_."  A tear slid unheeded down her cheek, and he reached out to touch it.  Staring down at his wet finger, he brought it to his tongue and tasted the saltiness of her sorrow.  Finally, for the first time since she had entered the room, his eyes met hers.

 

"You feel all this for me?"  At her wordless nod, his fingers slid into her hair to the base of her skull, where they curled into a fist.  His chest was heaving as if he were waging another battle, this time with himself.  "I... am not a gentle man, Hawke.  I do not know the eloquent words of a noble man, nor am I educated.  I have no belongings or money to offer you, only this... what you see before you.  And yet, I am what you truly want?"  His fist gripped her hair tightly, but she managed to nod her head.  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, lips murmuring soft words in Tevinter.  She could feel him shaking as he pulled her against him and lowered his head.

 

It was a brutally searing kiss; Fenris held nothing back.  As if a barrier had been breached, emotions poured from his mouth into hers.  He said nothing, but words flashed between them in a melding of tongues.  She could even feel the intensity of his passion radiating from the lyrium in his skin, and it sizzled over her skin, sparking the mana within her.  Her clothing fell away as he skillfully slit them open with the razor tips of his gauntlets.  She fumbled with the fastenings of his armor, but he brushed her hands away and removed it himself, his lips barely leaving hers.

 

So intent was she on the tongue plundering her mouth, she didn't realize he had moved her against the bed until he pushed her roughly down upon the rich, velvet bedspread she favored as a blanket.  She sprawled there panting, looking up at his nudity, her body aching at the sight of his beauty.  He was breathing heavily as he gazed down at her, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips.  Reaching down, he spread her legs apart and scraped his fingernails up the inside of her thigh, watching her reaction.  She moaned, arching her back and spreading herself even more for him, letting him _see_ how wet he made her.

 

His eyes darkened, and he knelt beside the bed, gripping her hips and pulling her toward him until the juncture between her thighs lay directly before his face.  He lowered his head to the soft triangle of curls there and closed his eyes, simply breathing in her scent.  She grabbed his hair and tried to pull him down, but he caught her wrist easily and held it firmly against the bed at her side.  After securing her other hand in the same manner, he nuzzled her folds, brushing his lips against them.  She whimpered and bucked her hips closer to his teasing lips, but he chuckled and pulled away, leaving her helplessly in torment.

 

He waited until she calmed before finally leaning forward and pressing his tongue between her folds.  As she gasped, he found the nub that gave her so much pleasure and began to slowly stroke it with his tongue.  His hands kept her pinned and unable to touch him in response.  She writhed as waves of pleasure ebbed from his soft licks, building rapidly in intensity.

 

“Fenris, please.  I need you…”  He raised his head, and she could see the depth of his own need reflected in his emerald eyes.  With a soft growl, he pulled her roughly toward him and off the bed, letting her fall straddled across his bent knees, her back supported against the side of the bed.  His muscular arms easily lifted her in the air, bringing her breasts against his lips.  His head moved forward and teeth grazed her sensitive nipple as he nipped at it.  She allowed her head to fall back in ecstasy as he tantalized each breast in turn.

 

Only when his arms began to shake from the strain of holding her aloft did he finally lower her, sheathing his erection inside her wetness as she settled astride his lap.  They both gasped as he sank deep within her, filling her completely.  He grasped her ankles and pulled her legs around his waist as her arms encircled his neck.  His hands moved into her hair, cupping her head as his tongue once again explored her eager mouth.

 

He began to rock slowly, sliding himself back and forth within her enclosing heat.  As he did so, his lips dropped to her neck, tongue tracing a wet trail to her pulse.  She surrendered to him with a wailing keen, dropping her head back to give him better access.  When he reached her shoulder, he bit sharply at her soft flesh, and her nails dug into his back in response.  Her muscles around his member were beginning to spasm, sending shivers of pleasure radiating through her body.

 

Sensing that neither of them was going to last much longer, Fenris pulled back and gently held her face steady in front of his.  His hips began to move with strong jerks, thrusting deeper into her.  His gaze held hers, and he refused to allow her to look anywhere but at him as he drew them ever closer to the edge.

 

“Lia… come with me. _Stay_ with me.”  His rumbling voice, so provocative even in less intimate moments, pulled a convulsive cry from her throat, and she tightened her legs around his waist.  She fell over the edge as he looked into her eyes, watching them glaze over as tremors shook her body and tightened the muscles inside her, milking his length.  His voice cracked with a deep moan as with one last thrust, he exploded.  Green and blue eyes locked in a passionate gaze as both of them trembled with the force of shared pleasure.

 

As the aftershocks dwindled and their glistening skin cooled, they rested their heads on each other’s shoulder.  Fenris turned his face towards her neck and murmured fervently against her pulse.  “I missed this.  I missed _us_.” 

 

She chuckled softly and tightened her arms around him.  “Then don’t leave me again, you stubborn elf.”

 

“I have learned my lesson,” he replied, smiling as he pulled her into another kiss.

 

 

The Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux was a remarkable architectural accomplishment.  Pillars and spires of silver and gold rose from marbled floors to vaulted ceilings adorned with murals of Andraste.  The sanctuary was enormous and filled with rows of polished rosewood pews.  A lovely statue of the Lady, crafted from precious metals, kept watch at the front of the room.  Pilgrims from everywhere in Thedas came to pay homage to the continent’s most elaborate place of worship.  Regardless of the time of day, the pews were always occupied by the faithful, pleading their case to the Maker and his bride.

 

After five years of serving the Chantry, Leliana found herself longing for the simplicity of the chantries in Ferelden.  At first, she had felt awed by the beauty and wonder of this sanctuary and was honored to serve in such splendor.  As time passed, the extravagance began to feel excessive and somehow blasphemous.  Should so much coin be spent on a building rather than the people who sought shelter within?

 

Sometimes she missed serving the worshippers who came to the Grand Cathedral seeking help.  Giving comfort to others had always given her a sense of serenity, especially after all the killing she had performed during her time with Alistair and Rielle.  She didn’t regret aiding the Wardens; the Maker had led her to them, and she felt that she had fulfilled her purpose.  But after the Archdemon’s death, her path had led her back to the Chantry, to the need to serve others.

 

After two years, the Divine had asked her to become a Seeker.  Her training as a bard was well known to the former Reverend Mother Dorothea, as Leliana had assisted her many years ago in retrieving stolen documents from Marjolaine.  Although Leliana had been reluctant to leave her role serving the commoners, the Divine had convinced her that she would do more good assisting the Chantry with rooting out the internal problems that plagued the organization.

 

As she reached the door to the office of the Divine, she straightened her robes self-consciously and knocked on the door.  The Divine called out for her to enter, and Leliana took a calming breath before opening the door.  Even after all this time, the presence of Justinia V still carried the weight of awe and reverence.  The aura of authority surrounded her even when she was seated behind her desk, as she was at this moment.

 

“Thank you for coming, Sister Leliana.”  The Divine gestured at a chair before her desk.  “Please, have a seat.”

 

“Thank you, your Grace.”  Her eyes moved as always to the small niche in the wall behind the desk, which held a delicate statue of Andraste crafted in exquisite detail from ironbark.

 

The Divine sat back in her well-cushioned chair and folded her hands on the desk.  Her light-brown hair was pulled back in a braided bun, and her face was starting to show the lines of age.  Her robes of burgundy were made of the finest linen and embroidered across the chest with the golden sun symbol of the Chantry.  Her flinty blue eyes were stern and had the unnerving quality of seeming to penetrate the mind of whoever she was looking at.

 

“How have things been for you, my dear?”

 

“Fine, your Grace.  Things have been relatively stable here among the templars and the magi.”  Leliana shifted slightly.  “Of course, the stories coming in from Kirkwall have begun to cause some unrest at the Circle, but nothing as of yet to be concerned about.”

 

“That is good to hear.  Unfortunately, that may change if the situation in Kirkwall turns into outright aggression.”  The Divine motioned to some pieces of parchment on her desk.  “I have received a letter from Grand Cleric Elthina of the Kirkwall Chantry.  Apparently, there was a public confrontation between Knight Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino.  Orsino has been trying to gain the support of the commoners by slandering the templars.”

 

“What is he saying?”

 

“As you know, Meredith took control of Kirkwall after the death of Viscount Dumar.  She felt this was appropriate until a new Viscount could be elected.  Orsino has claimed that she is using her position in a tyrannical way against the magi.  He is telling the citizens of Kirkwall that she will extend her control over the entire city if she is allowed to continue.”

 

“Is Meredith acting wrongfully toward the Circle?”

 

The Divine sighed.  “To be honest, I’m not sure.  I received another letter from Knight Captain Cullen.  He is supporting Meredith at this time, but he states that there may be some concern about Meredith’s future intentions.  Elthina is being careful to not choose sides, so he is seeking advice from me.”

 

“And what have you said to him?”

 

“I haven’t replied to him yet.  I have considered the implications of both letters and have decided that an investigation into the situation at Kirkwall is warranted.  I am going to send you, Leliana, as my answer.”

 

Leliana stiffened in surprise.  “Me?  You want me to go to Kirkwall?”

 

“Yes, my dear.  I think it is time that we send a Seeker to Kirkwall to get a better picture of the growing problems between the templars and the Circle.  Your talents and experience are quite suitable for the task.”

 

Leliana lowered her gaze to her hands.  “What is it you wish me to investigate, your Grace?”

 

“Go talk to Meredith, Orsino, Elthina, and Cullen.  Try to get some insight into exactly what is happening there and see if there is a way to defuse the tension before it explodes.  Elthina will give you a place to stay in the Chantry for the duration of your visit.”

 

“Very well.  When shall I leave?”

 

“As soon as you can be ready.  I will give you letters of introduction to take with you.  These will smooth your way once you reach Kirkwall.”  The Divine hesitated briefly, staring down at her desk.  “There is something else I wish you to look into, as well.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Several years ago an expedition from Kirkwall ventured into the Deep Roads to search for treasure.  They discovered an ancient dwarven thaig, a place that apparently predates the Memories of their Shaperate.”

 

Leliana nodded.  “Yes, I heard about this expedition.  One of the partners was the now-famous Champion of Kirkwall.”

 

The Divine smiled.  “You keep yourself well-informed.  Very good.  Yes, the Champion was involved in the discovery.  We have learned a little of what the expedition found in the Thaig.  I want you to try to learn more, perhaps from the Champion herself.”

 

“What do we know already?”

 

“We know that the expedition encountered strange new creatures, but no darkspawn, which is odd given that it is located beneath the Deep Roads.  More importantly, they found an abundance of lyrium, a new type of lyrium that appears to be more potent than the kind currently used by the templars and magi.  I would you to try to find out more about this lyrium and anything else about this Primeval Thaig that you think is important.”

 

“As you wish, my Grace.  I will endeavor to serve the Maker as best as I may in this task.”

 

The Divine rose to her feet.  “I’m confident in your abilities in this matter, Leliana.  Please do not hesitate to ask for anything you might need to complete your mission.”

 

Leliana rose and bowed to her superior.  “I thank you for your confidence.  I will leave within a few days and report back as soon as I am able.” 

 

“Go in peace, my dear.  Let us hope it is not too late to prevent a catastrophe in Kirkwall.”

 

 

 

 

 

Nathaniel surveyed the interior of the Hanged Man with little interest.  It seemed that taverns everywhere were identical in décor:  wooden tables and chairs scarred with deep scratches, dirty, discarded tin mugs waiting to be gathered and washed, the usual assembly of drunkards playing cards or snoring with their heads on the grimy tables.  The Hanged Man reminded him strongly of the Crown and the Lion in Amaranthine.  Same atmosphere, different people.

 

An inquiry at the bar directed him upstairs, where he found a beardless dwarf lounging at a banquet table with his feet up, polishing a crossbow, a mug of ale within easy reach.

 

“Varric?”

 

The dwarf looked up and carefully inspected the tall, dark-haired man standing by the table.

 

“Last I heard, that was still my name.  You are?”

 

“My name is Nathaniel Howe, and I’m the Warden Commander of Ferelden.”

 

The introduction meant something, because the dwarf sat up straighter and laid his crossbow aside with great care.

 

“Really?  What business brings a Warden to the Hanged Man?”

 

“Deep Roads business,” replied Nathaniel.  “I understand you were part of an expedition that explored a new area of the Deep Roads several years ago.  I could not locate your brother, but I was directed to you.”

 

“Ah, yes.  You won’t be finding Bartrand walking around Kirkwall anymore, I’m afraid.  He kind of went off the deep end of the Deep Roads, so to speak.”  Varric chuckled at his joke, but Nathaniel remained stone-faced.  The dwarf sighed.  “Not much for humor, eh?”

 

Nathaniel ignored the dwarf’s attempt at levity.  “Do you happen to have a map of the route you took to the Primeval Thaig?”

 

Varric rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “Well, we made an attempt to track our progress through the Deep Roads, but after my bastard of a brother locked us in, we focused more on finding a way out than on making a map.  I still have a crude drawing of how we got there though, if you’re interested.”

 

“Yes, that would be very helpful.  Thank you.”  Nathaniel retrieved a money pouch from his belt.  “I’m prepared to pay you for your trouble, of course.”

 

Varric flashed a grin.  “Well, now you’re talking a language I can appreciate.  Let me go get the map, and we’ll talk some business.”

 

He disappeared into a back room and returned shortly with a partially crumbled parchment.  With a flourish, he laid it out on the table before Nathaniel.

 

“Here you go!  Not very well drawn, I have to say, but it should give you enough information to find the thaig.  I just hope you’re not asking me to accompany you, because one time in that place was enough for me.”

 

“I have some of my men with me,” replied Nathaniel as he laid several sovereigns on the table.  “Will this be enough to purchase the map?”

 

Varric picked up the coins and held them up to the light admiringly.  “You are most generous, Warden Commander.  I don’t know why you’re so interested in that thaig though.  We didn’t find any darkspawn there, only a lot of other weird things that were just as bad.”

 

“The Wardens often find it helpful to explore new areas of the Deep Roads.  It’s better to prevent trouble before it reaches the surface.”  Nathaniel carefully rolled up the map and placed it in his pack.  “Many thanks for this, Varric.  Good night to you.”

 

“And good night to you, Warden.  Be careful out there in Lowtown.  There’s always some greedy thief ready to kill you for your boots.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”  Nathaniel left quietly without a glance backward.

 

Varric watched him leave.  “Well Bianca,” he murmured to his beloved crossbow.   “There’s Ferelden Wardens in town.   Life may be about to become more interesting.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Lia eyed the elf warily as he strode toward them.  She couldn’t help but compare him to Fenris.  While Fenris was tall for an elf and broadly muscular due to his training as a warrior, the assassin was shorter and lean.  His dark skin brought out the amber color of his eyes, while braided blond hair framed his handsome face.  Three sinuous lines swept down from his left eye, accenting his high cheekbones.  He walked with an easy grace that exuded confidence, despite the fact that he was confronted with four fighters who had just killed a Varterral in the process of hunting him.

 

“Well done, if I may say so,” greeted the elf.  “Varterrals are not easily defeated, but you had little trouble.”  He cocked his head, assessing the group before him.  “I was expecting Crows, but you obviously aren’t assassins.  Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Zevran Arainai, and I humbly apologize for the difficulties you encountered in getting through my cave.  I was expecting a larger group intent on killing me, and I laid traps in the hope of weakening them before they got this far.”

 

“How do you know we aren’t here to kill you?”  Lia crossed her arms, regarding Zevran with interest.

 

“Hmm.”  Zevran rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “Well, since you are here, I’m assuming the Crows must have sent you to retrieve me, and they would want me alive.  I find it amusing that they didn’t come themselves.”

 

“They said we would have a better chance of convincing the Dalish to reveal your hideout, since we have dealt with them before,” volunteered Varric.

 

“Indeed?  Well, that was quite unnecessary.  I had already instructed the Dalish to give directions to my location to anyone who asked.  They are friends, and I have no wish to involve them in my… dangerous affairs.”

 

“Lia, I know of this elf,” Anders said.  “He was one of Rielle Surana’s companions and helped to end the Blight in Ferelden.”

 

Zevran smiled widely.  “I see my reputation precedes me!  How fortunate since it will save me the time of giving you my history.  May I ask who you fine people might be?”

 

Lia hesitated, and then decided that Zevran posed no immediate threat and was apparently known to the Dalish.  Such a person was unlikely to be an enemy.  “I am Lia Hawke, and my companions are Varric, Fenris, and Anders.”

 

“Ah, delighted to meet all of you.”  Zevran bowed.  “It is an honor to meet the famed Champion of Kirkwall.  If I may further inquire, what do you intend to do with me?  I’d like to know if I will need my blades, although I hope it won’t be necessary.”

 

“We were informed by a nobleman from Antiva named Nuncio that you are a dangerous assassin who needs to be brought to him for your crimes.  Now that I know who you are, I must admit that I’m questioning his true motives,” replied Lia.

 

Zevran’s gaze turned sharp.  “You say his name was Nuncio?  I think I understand now.  You see, Nuncio is the Master of a minor Crow cell.  I say minor because the last I heard, his group was small and inexperienced.  I would guess that he has decided that killing me would raise the reputation of his cell.”  He chuckled in amusement.  “I wonder if he planned to tell the rest of the Guild that he captured me himself, although he has hired you to do it.”

 

“I’m not sending one of the heroes of Ferelden to his death,” stated Lia firmly.  “If he wants you, he will have to come himself.  Frankly, I’m angry that he didn’t tell me the truth.  We were trying to earn some coin by bringing you in, and now that isn’t going to happen.”

 

“Well, I’m relieved that we shall not have to battle one another, and I sympathize with your plight.”  He paused, thinking.  “If you would like to seek out Nuncio, I would be happy to guide you to their camp.  I have spent the past few days scouting the area and have located where they are staying.  In fact, if he gives you trouble, I will be quite satisfied to aid you in defeating him.  I have a strong suspicion as to why I am being hunted, and a search of his camp might prove worthwhile.”

 

“Well,” drawled Varric, “what are we waiting for?  I say we go string up those Crows and take our payment from their sorry hides.”

 

Lia glanced over at Fenris and Anders.  “Well?  What do you two think?”

 

Anders shrugged.  “I don’t relish turning him in to the Crows.  He’s a former friend of Rielle’s.”  His face tightened and for a moment, his thoughts seemed far away.  “I remember her talking about Zevran.  He’s no enemy of ours.”

 

Fenris frowned.  “I don’t trust him.  If the Crows are trying to capture him, it may be better to stay out of this.”

 

Lia sighed and shook her head.  “He helped the Hero of Ferelden destroy the Archdemon.  I won’t be the one to help the Crows get their hands on him.”  She turned to Zevran.  “Lead the way.  We will follow you to their camp.”

 

“Wonderful!”  Zevran clapped his hands in delight.  “We shall have some fun then!  Let us go meet this _nobleman from Antiva_.”

 

 

It took several days to descend below the Deep Roads to the Primeval Thaig.  The Wardens met occasional groups of darkspawn, but they were scattered and easily dispatched.  Once they got close to the ancient thaig, they encountered no darkspawn at all.  In fact, the absence of darkspawn made Nathaniel just as nervous as their presence would have.

 

Finally, the group stepped through a narrow, broken opening in the stone that revealed a long staircase going down into the dark.  As they descended, a red glow appeared below that grew brighter as they neared the bottom.  Nathaniel waited until all the Wardens reached the lower level before entering through a doorway from which the glow emanated.  As they passed through, the group stopped dead and looked around in awe.

 

They appeared to be in some kind of ancient temple.  Pillars of pocked stone rose from the cracked earthen floor to the huge vaulted ceilings above.  The walls were lined with enormous statues of dwarves with arms raised as if they were holding up the roof.  In between the statues, thick veins of glowing red lyrium twined along the walls like giant vines.  Here and there, altars rose from the floor with intricate designs engraved into the stone.  At the far end of the temple, stairs led to a door.

 

Nathaniel and the other Wardens walked slowly through the altars, examining the designs.  Some appeared to be a kind of written language, but even the Wardens who knew dwarvish did not recognize the symbols.  The statues lent an air of watchfulness that made Nathaniel uneasy.  They had encountered a number of golems on their way through the Deep Roads, and he almost expected these statues to take on a life of their own.  Glancing back to check on his men, he noticed that a dwarven Warden had wandered to the wall and was running his hand along a vein of lyrium.

 

“Storvin!  Back away from that,” he called in alarm.

 

Storvin withdrew his hand reluctantly.  “It’s okay, Commander.  We dwarves can touch lyrium without having any ill effects.”

 

“This isn’t the lyrium you’re used to.  This is something new, more potent than the ore in Orzammar.”

 

“You aren’t kidding about that,” replied the dwarf, looking down at the hand that had touched the vein.  “It felt… almost like it was alive.  It kind of hummed with energy, like there was electricity running through it.”

 

Nathaniel glanced over at the only mage Warden he had brought on the expedition.  “Lucas, what do you sense here?”

 

The mage was looking around fearfully, rubbing his arms as if they were cold.  “I don’t like this place, Commander.  It feels… strange.  I was in a lyrium mine once, and I could feel that lyrium on my skin like a tingling sensation.  What I’m feeling now isn’t tingling.  It’s like Storvin said… my skin is humming.  And I can _taste_ it, like the taste of burnt metal.”  He shook his head.  “Even my head, it feels like there are voices whispering, but I can’t quite make them out.”  He looked directly at Nathaniel with worried eyes.  “I don’t think I should stay here long.”

 

Nathaniel frowned and thought for a few seconds.  “Okay,” he said slowly.  “We will head back up that stairway to the next level above and make camp for the night.  It’s been a long day anyway.  Tomorrow, we’ll come back and explore more thoroughly.  Lucas, we’ll leave you in camp tomorrow with another Warden.  If you’re feeling funny, I don’t want to mess with that.”  He looked around the temple once more.  “I think we have to be very careful here until we know what we’re dealing with.”

 

 

Lia entered Nuncio’s camp casually with her men, while Zevran stayed behind out of sight.  They were noticed immediately, of course, and the Crows quickly alerted their leader to her presence.  Nuncio approached slowly with a frown, one hand resting on the hilt of a dagger on his hip.

 

“Greetings, Champion.”  His eyes moved through her group restlessly before returning to her face.  “Were you not able to find the assassin?”

 

Lia crossed her arms.  “You mean Zevran?  You neglected to inform me of his name.”

 

Nuncio tightened his lips.  “His name should mean little to you.  What should matter is the money you will earn by capturing him.  Did you find his hiding place?”

 

“I did.  I don’t think you will need to go there, however.”

 

“Indeed?  And why not?”

 

Zevran stepped out from the nearby trees and walked calmly to stand beside Lia.  “Why go to the rabbit hole if the rabbit comes to you?”  He smiled at Nuncio, but the smile did not reach his eyes.  Lia suddenly realized that she would be very afraid to be the target of that smile.  “A little far from Antiva, are you not, Nuncio?”

 

The Crow narrowed his eyes at Zevran.  “As are you, whoreson.  But it was not too difficult to follow your trail.  I appreciate you saving me the trouble of going to you.”  His eyes shifted to Lia.  “I appreciate you bringing him to me, Champion.  You will be compensated for your trouble.”

 

Varric let out a hearty chuckle and casually drew Bianca from her case on his back.  “And what makes you think we brought him to you?  It just so happens that the assassin led us here, rather than the other way around.”

 

The Crows immediately drew their weapons and shifted closer to Nuncio, who tensed.  “So that is how it is?  So be it.  You may all share his fate then.”  With a slight wave of his hand, the Crows attacked.

 

In spite of the fact that they were sorely outnumbered, Lia was able to see what Zevran had meant about Nuncio’s cell being inexperienced.  Only Nuncio himself was any real challenge.  Zevran had asked that Lia leave Nuncio to him, and she was happy to oblige.  She and her companions dispatched the other Crows with ease, suffering little injury.  When they were finished, she turned to see if Zevran needed any assistance.  He didn’t.

 

The Crow Master was sprawled on the ground with Zevran’s blade at his throat.  The elf was crouched over his adversary, his legs straddling the man’s chest, his teeth bared in a ferocious grimace.

 

“It would seem, Nuncio, that the Crows should have sent a different Master, don’t you think?”

 

The defeated man spat in Zevran’s face.  “You think you have _won_ , whoreson?  I tell you that it has only just _begun_.  There is more at stake here than you or me.”  He laughed bitterly.  “We are only pawns, Zevran.  There is a greater game being played, and even you cannot stop it.”

 

Zevran frowned and opened his mouth to speak.  Before he could utter a sound, Nuncio reached up and grabbed Zevran’s wrist.  In a last desperate show of strength, the Crow Master pulled Zevran’s hand toward his chest, driving the elf’s dagger into his own heart.  Within a few heartbeats, he was dead.

 

Zevran cursed in fury and drew his dagger from Nuncio’s chest.  He wiped the blood from his blade on the dead man’s shirt and sheathed it while he stood.  After a last disgusted glance at the Master, he turned to Lia.

 

“Apparently, Nuncio knew more than I thought he did.  Shall we look around camp?  Feel free to loot as you please; I need no coin.  I merely wish to look for information.”

 

There were packs and travel chests near the campfire.  Zevran proceeded to search these while Lia, Varric, Fenris, and Anders searched the bodies for anything of value.  Varric let out a low whistle as he straightened from Nuncio’s body.

 

“Well, I think we made some profit off these dead birds after all.”  Laughing at his own joke, he tossed a few gold sovereigns in the air.  Fenris held up some vials.

 

“Some useful potions, as well.  Always a good thing to have around.”  He stuffed the vials in the pouch at his waist.

 

Lia smiled at his practicality.  “So, all in all, not a bad day, eh?”

 

“Not to mention we helped a hero of Ferelden,” grinned Anders.

 

“Indeed,” replied Zevran as he approached them.  “And I may have found something of interest, also.”  He was holding a folded envelope in his hand.

 

“Anything good in there to blackmail someone with?” asked Varric.

 

“Varric!”  Lia glared at him.

 

“Hey!” said Varric, holding up his hands in surrender.  “They’re Crows.  It’s not like they’re the good guys, you know.”

 

Zevran laughed.  “I’m afraid it’s nothing quite so lucrative, my dwarven friend.  It may be of importance to a friend of mine, however.”  He pocketed the envelope.  “To all of you, I owe a debt of gratitude for your assistance.  I sincerely hope that I may be able to aid you in a likewise manner someday.”  His eyes lingered on Lia’s chest.  “Of course, there’s more than one kind of aid, and I specialize in many kinds.”  He leered at the Champion and winked.

 

Fenris growled and stepped forward.  “We have no need of your particular kind of assistance, assassin.”  He stood protectively at Lia’s side, his hand twitching as if he were itching to draw his sword.  Lia gave him a quick smile.

 

Zevran chuckled and held up his hands.  “No offence intended, my friends.”  He bowed to Lia.  “You have my sincere thanks and appreciation, my Lady.  It was an honor to meet you and your companions.  May luck continue to smile on you.”  He retrieved from his belt a fine dagger of red steel and held it out to Lia.  “I call this blade Finesse.  It has served me well and remains sharp under the worst of abuse.  Please, accept it as my thanks.”

 

“Thank you, Zevran.”  Lia took the blade and admired it with a smile.  Isabela would love to have a new weapon.

 

“You are most welcome.  Now if you will excuse me, I must be off.  Places to go and so on.”  With a short nod, he turned and disappeared into the trees.

 

“Good riddance,” muttered Fenris.

 

“Well, he seemed likable enough, and I have to say that watching him fight was quite entertaining,” responded Lia.  “I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”

 

“You’re gonna be on _my_ bad side if we don’t get back to Kirkwall and get us some grub and ale,” grumbled Varric.  “I’m starving!”

 

 

 

 

Nathaniel decided to leave Storvic with Lucas the next day while the rest of the Wardens explored the Primeval Thaig.  Storvic said he wasn’t feeling well and was content to remain behind.  Nathaniel led the others back down the stairs and into the temple.  Everything was exactly as they had left it, just as it had been for centuries.

 

Nathaniel led them through the door at the far end of the temple and followed a short hallway into a huge cavern filled with pits of lava through which bridges of stone weaved an abandoned path.  The red veins of lyrium were more prominent here and twined along the stone paths like tortuous snakes.  Nathaniel bent on one knee to examine one, being careful not to touch it.

 

“I’ve never seen red lyrium before,” muttered one of his men nervously.  Do you think it’s demonic?”

 

“If it were, wouldn’t it be in the Fade?” wondered Nathaniel aloud.  “I’ve never heard of red lyrium in the Fade or anywhere else, for that matter.  The Champion is rumored to have said that she thinks it’s a purer form of lyrium.  Perhaps blue lyrium is derived from red.”

 

“If it’s more potent than blue lyrium, what kind of power would it give magi and templars?” asked one of the other Wardens.  _A kind of power I probably don’t want to see_ , thought Nathaniel grimly.

 

“Well, at least there’s no darkspawn here,” he declared.  “I wonder if the red lyrium has something to do with that.”

 

“Let’s take some with us and find out,” suggested one of his men.

 

“Varric’s brother supposedly went insane from handling an idol made from this stuff,” replied Nathaniel.  “Of course, he handled it a lot over a period of time, which probably exaggerated the effects.  I’d still be worried about transporting it, though.”  He closed his eyes briefly, thinking hard.  “Perhaps if we brought a golem down here to carry it, it might be possible.”

 

“Commander, I think we have company from something made of rocks, and it’s not a golem.”  Nathaniel opened his eyes and stood quickly.  One of his men was pointing across a nearby bridge at a humanoid form walking slowly toward them.  It was composed of rocks held loosely together in the jumbled shape of a man, with glowing white ribs in the place of its chest.  One glowing red eye glared malevolently at them as it advanced menacingly.  Nathaniel drew his bow and took a fighting stance.

 

“If it moves, it can die like anything else.  Ready yourself, Wardens!”

 

 

Zevran waited until he had built a small campfire, set up his tent, and eaten some dried meat and bread before taking out the letter he had found in Nuncio’s pack.  He turned the crumpled envelope over in his hands, noting the broken seal.  Opening the flap, he retrieved the parchment inside and spread it open carefully.

 

 _Señor,_

 _I was greatly disappointed to hear that your man was unable to complete his mission and fulfill our contract.  I had placed faith in your ability to see this through, and you failed me.  However, a related matter has come to my attention that may redeem your fallen reputation.  A renegade bird has been asking too many questions.  Cage the bird and all will be forgiven.  Failure will result in most unpleasant consequences._

In place of a signature, there was a simple symbol:  a lute with a knife thrust through the strings.

 

Zevran stared at the letter for a long time, his mind racing.  He had suspected that Nuncio had chased him due to the questions he had asked in Antiva regarding Anora’s assassination.  The words on the parchment seemed to confirm this.  It was the symbol that troubled him the most, however.  A lute with a knife was known throughout Thedas to be the emblem of the Bards of Orlais.

 

Zevran folded the letter and returned it to his pack.  If the letter was not a trick placed to mislead him, then a bard had contracted a Crow cell to assassinate Anora.  The words indicated a failure, which led him to surmise that Alistair had also been a target.  What this meant in the larger scheme of things was yet to be determined, but he was troubled.

 

He could no longer afford to wait.  It was time to pay a visit to the King of Ferelden.

 

 

Nathaniel followed what was left of his men through the jagged hole at the head of the stairs leading from the Primeval Thaig.  He kept glancing back down warily, afraid that more rock wraiths were trailing them.  They had survived, but at a loss of several good Wardens.  He wished that they had taken Lucas with them; the mage’s healing skills would have helped considerably.  At least they were almost at their camp, and the mage could help if the wraiths happened to follow them.

 

He was so focused on watching behind him that he almost bumped into the Wardens standing completely still in front of him.

 

“What’s going on?” Pushing his way through his men, he passed the edge of the campsite and moved forward alone.  What he saw brought him to a halt.

 

Lucas lay sprawled on his side, his eyes wide and staring, and his mouth open in a silent scream.  A pool of partially congealed blood seeped from beneath his robes.

 

Sitting propped up with his back against a rock, was the corpse of Storvin.  In his inert fist, was a bloody knife that protruded from his chest.  His face was stretched in a maniacal grin, and he seemed to be staring at his fallen comrade with unholy glee.

 

“Maker preserve us,” Nathaniel heard one of his men whisper.  “Why in Thedas did he kill Lucas and himself?”

 

Nathaniel remembered with a chill that Storvin had touched the red lyrium only yesterday.  Apparently, Storvin had been affected just as Varric’s brother had been.  Suddenly, the endless stone surrounding them made him feel extremely claustrophobic.

 

“I think we’ve spent enough time here.”  He looked back at what was left of his group.  “Let’s gather our things and get out.  The mystery of this thaig will have to wait for another time.”

 

The Wardens swiftly took down the tents and assembled their packs.  Once everyone was ready, Nathaniel began to lead them back the way they had come.  For several hours, they traveled uninhibited and the grim spookiness that had overshadowed their return to camp began to dissipate.  Unfortunately, it seemed that the Deep Roads weren’t going to allow them to leave so easily.

 

Rounding a corner to enter yet another large pillared hall, Nathaniel froze.  Before them waited a large group of hurlocks, flanked by two ogres and an emissary.  Apparently, the Wardens’ journey had not gone unnoticed by the Roads’ inhabitants.  With a sigh, Nathaniel drew out his bow once more.

 

“I guess they can’t let us leave without a fight.  Let’s give them a good one, people.”  The Wardens rushed ahead with a chorus of battle cries as Nathaniel loosed a hail of arrows at the emissary.  He could only hope that this ancient hall wouldn’t become their grave.


	5. Chapter 5

Rielle glided along the hallway, dragging her fingers across the roughly-hewn stone.  The walls of Kinloch Hold, also known as the Circle Tower, had seen so much history and so much misery.  As a young girl, she had suffered an over-active imagination, fearing that the ancient stone would collapse and kill all who lived within.  This had resulted in the occasional embarrassing panic attack and nightmares that sent her flying to the nearest window to reassure herself that there was still a world out there.

 

She smiled sadly at the memory.  Now that she was older, she knew that many of the Tower’s residents experienced similar claustrophobia.  Magi remained confined to the Tower until they had passed their Harrowing, and even they rarely obtained permission to leave.  Such was the Chantry’s solution to magic:  if you don’t understand it, keep it locked up _.  As if we were animals_ , she thought bitterly, _instead of intelligent beings_.

 

Her defiance against the Tower and all it stood for had led her to the Wardens.  For several years she had tasted the sweetness of freedom, had even made a name for herself.  She’d had grand hopes of using her influence to educate Ferelden about the true nature of magi.  In Amaranthine, she had met a man who shared her dreams, and together they had spent many a glorious night under the stars making plans and making love in the dew-soaked grass.

 

 _Anders_.  Even now, his name was a knife in her soul.  She had not thought it possible to become so intertwined with another being; her relationship with Alistair had paled in comparison.  After the death of the Mother, her path with Anders had seemed assured, their love a fire that burned with the fervor of determination.  They would make the world a better place for magi, a place where parents wouldn’t be forced to hand over their children to armored strangers.

 

Then he was gone, leaving their dreams and her heart shattered like broken glass.  He had simply disappeared, leaving behind his beloved cat and a clearing full of dead wardens.  All of her frantic searches led to dead ends, and finally she was forced to admit defeat.  By the time Greagoir came to plead with her to become First Enchanter, the embers of her heart had already turned to ash.  There was nothing left for her at Vigil’s Keep, and so she gave her command to Nathaniel and left with Greagoir.

 

And so she had come full circle from her beginnings in the Tower and back again.  Her plans with Anders had died with his flight, but she had tried her best to continue their dreams here.  Her years as First Enchanter had been tirelessly spent forging ties between the templars and magi.  For a while, it seemed she might actually succeed; but then came the news from Kirkwall, and now tensions were rising once more.

 

She knocked on the door of Greagoir’s office.  In spite of the increasing bitterness in the Tower, she and Greagoir remained on friendly terms.  The Knight Commander had held his title for many years, and his even temperament had helped to maintain peace in a volatile environment.  She was grateful that he was entirely different from Meredith.

 

“Come in!” called the Knight Commander.

 

She entered his office, smiling at the gray-haired templar sitting behind his desk.  As always, he was wearing full armor, and she could not remember a time when she had ever witnessed him wearing civilian clothing.  He returned her smile and gestured at a nearby chair, and she sat down gracefully.

 

“Thank you for seeing me, Knight Commander.”

 

“It is always a pleasure, First Enchanter.  I also wished to speak with you this evening, so your request is aptly timed.  But please, speak first of what you came for.”

 

“I came to speak of Connor, Commander.  I believe that the time has come for his Harrowing.”

 

Greagoir raised his eyebrows.  “You speak of Seneschal Eamon’s son.”  She nodded.  “Isn’t he rather young for the Harrowing?”

 

“He is sixteen, and yes, that is younger than we usually put magi through the Harrowing.  Connor is not the usual sixteen-year-old mage, however.”

 

Greagoir frowned.  “Explain, please.”

 

Rielle stared down at her hands folded in her lap.  Finally, she sighed and looked back up at Greagoir.

 

“Connor has… an unusual past, Commander.  It has been kept secret for years to protect him, but I think you need to hear the story before I explain further.”

 

So she told Greagoir the tale that been buried in her memory for years.  She told him of Redcliffe in the time of the Blight and how the town had been nearly destroyed by hordes of undead.  She told him of Connor, then an eight-year-old boy, and his deal with a demon to save his father from a poisoned death.  She told him of how Jowan had killed Isolde and used her blood to send Rielle to the Fade, and how she had killed the demon and freed Connor.  She told him all of this while staring down at her hands, trying to keep from trembling at the memory of Isolde’s terrible death.

 

When she had finished, both were silent for a while.  Greagoir rubbed his forehead slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was tired.

 

“So this young man was possessed by a demon at one time.  And yet, he was allowed to live and train as a mage?”

 

“The demon was destroyed and there appeared to be no lasting effects.  To this day, he has no memory of what happened.  He believes Isolde to have died from a sickness, as does the rest of Ferelden save those few who were there.”

 

“If he was possessed once, doesn’t that place him at a greater risk of being possessed again?  I have to say I question the judgment of allowing him to live.”

 

Rielle shook her head.  “You weren’t there, Commander.  What would you have had me say to Arl Eamon?  ‘I’m sorry but your only child needs to be killed because he harbored a demon for a short while.’”  She gave a short laugh of exasperation.  “I guarantee you that saying that would not have gone over well.”

 

Greagoir sighed.  “I suppose not.  But it makes me worry about Connor’s future.  Now tell me why you wish to put him through the Harrowing so soon.”

 

“He is, quite simply, the most gifted mage this tower has seen since Anders, Commander.”  Rielle’s voice faltered at Anders’s name, and Greagoir looked at her sharply.  “At sixteen, he is more advanced than most mages twice his age.  Waiting until he is older will be of no benefit.”

 

“Gifted as Anders was, look at all the trouble he caused.  Can you assure me that Connor won’t go the same way?”

 

“He’s one the most well-behaved apprentices in this Tower, and you know it.”

 

“And what will happen when he enters the Fade for his Harrowing?  He will have to confront a demon, as you well know.  What if he succumbs again?”

 

Rielle sighed.  “He was only eight at that time.  He is stronger now, much stronger.  I believe in him, Commander.  If I didn’t think he could do this, I wouldn’t suggest it.”

 

Greagoir stared at her for a long time, indecision in his eyes.  Finally, he closed his eyes and bowed his head.  “So be it.  We will prepare for Connor’s Harrowing.”  He raised his head and met Rielle’s gaze with a set face.  “We will take extra precautions, whether you condone it or not.  I will not risk another invasion of this Tower by demons.”

 

She nodded.  “Understood and thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me.  Just pray to the Maker that you’re right, and we won’t regret this.  I would hate to have to tell Seneschal Eamon that his son became an abomination.”

 

“Agreed,” said Rielle with a grimace.

 

“Now that we’ve addressed that issue, I have something to tell you.”  The Commander folded his hands on the desk.  “I am resigning.”

 

Rielle froze in shock.  “You’re leaving the Tower?  But… we need you!”

 

Greagoir lowered his gaze.  “I understand your dismay, First Enchanter, and I regret that this comes at such a restless time.  I had hoped to remain for a while longer, to assure stability here in the face of what’s happening in Kirkwall.  But I no longer have that choice.”

 

“May I ask why?”

 

He turned to gaze out the window at the waters of Lake Calenhad.  “It may not seem so to you, Rielle Surana, being still young as you are, but I am growing old.  I outlasted Irving, but I cannot outlast time itself.  As you know, all templars eventually succumb to the madness of lyrium addiction.  Lyrium is the source of our power, and it is our curse.  As we grow old, it robs us of our sanity, little by little.  Eventually, we become delirious and remember nothing of our humanity.”  He closed his eyes.  “Such is our fate and mine as well.”

 

Rielle stared at him in horror.  “I always wondered what happened to templars once the lyrium took over their minds.  Where will you go?”

 

“I will go where all templars go when their time has come:  to the Chantry, to the Maker.  In becoming templars, we serve the Chantry, and when we grow old, they serve us.  We are kept hidden from the world so that our madness might not discourage new recruits, and they care for us until the day comes when we leave this world.”

 

Unshed tears burned Rielle’s eyes.  “You may go to the Chantry to be hidden away, but we will not forget you, Commander.  Must you go now?”

 

“I must and soon.”  His eyes softened.  “I feel the effects already, Rielle.  The madness rages at the edge of my mind, and I know that I can’t hold it back forever.  I would not wish to cause anyone here injury, nor do I wish to shame myself.  It is time to move on.”  He straightened in his chair.  “I will stay until after Connor’s Harrowing.  By that time, the Chantry will have sent my replacement.”

 

Rielle bent her head sadly.  “Very well.  You will be sorely missed, Commander.”

 

Greagoir smiled at her.  “I will leave comforted in the knowledge that you will be here to hold the Tower together.”  He stood and gave Rielle a bow.  “And now I bid you good night, First Enchanter.  We both have much to do tomorrow to ready for the Harrowing.  Go and get some rest.”

 

She nodded and rose to her feet.  “Good night, Commander.  Sleep well.”

 

He gave a humorless chuckle.  “That may prove difficult, given all that is happening in Thedas these days.  Let us hope the madness that comes for me does not come also to the world.”

 

 

Beads of sweat dripped from Nathaniel’s brow as he loosed arrow after arrow toward the oncoming darkspawn.  _So many of them and so few of us_ , he thought grimly.  He watched helplessly as another Warden fell, leaving him entirely alone against the remaining hurlocks.  Tossing his bow aside, he drew his daggers as the screeching darkspawn rushed across the cavern toward him.  _Come to me you evil bastards; let us go together to our deaths_.

 

To his surprise, the hurlocks froze in place as if time had suddenly stopped in the parched hot air.  A shout sounded from behind him, and an elf with skin covered by glowing blue lines leapt into the midst of the paralyzed hurlocks.  He slashed his greatsword in a wide arc, and blood rained thickly around him.  Hearing a grunt at his side, Nathaniel glanced down to see a dwarf drawing his crossbow with a maniacal grin.

 

“You seem like you need a bit of help,” he shouted above the darkspawns’ screams of rage.  “Let’s show them what a couple of good bows can do!”

 

Realizing that his sentence of death had lifted, Nathaniel shared a grin with a dwarf.  As he retrieved his bow, he noticed a female mage lobbing fireballs with practiced ease at the hurlocks.  Further back, another mage was mostly hidden behind the blue swirls of his healing spells.  Feeling better than he had in days, he began loosing arrows at the remaining darkspawn with barely suppressed glee.

 

Thanks to the group of four who had come to his aid, the fight was over in less than a minute.  Nathaniel wiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead as they approached him.   The flame-haired woman appeared to be the leader, and she slung a formidable looking staff across her back as she approached.

 

“Nathaniel?”

 

He blinked in surprise.  “Yes, that is my name, but how do you know it?  I do not think we have met before, my lady.”

 

“We haven’t, but your sister asked us to come and look for you.  She was concerned about your safety.”

 

“Delilah tends to over-worry, but in this case, I’m glad that she sent you.”  His eyes moved over the group and widened when they focused on the other mage he had noticed earlier.  “ _Anders_?”

 

Anders grinned, perking up more than he usually did.  “Hey Nate, fancy meeting you in the Deep Roads.  And of course, you still need my help!”

 

Nathaniel shook his head.  “I could have used you sooner, but now is better than never.”  He gave a slight bow to all of them.  “Thank you for the impromptu rescue.  I don’t know the rest of you, but if you’re with Anders, I’m assuming you’re good people who just happen to have poor taste.”

 

Anders glared at him.  “I see you still have a strange sense of humor.”

 

Lia laughed.  “I’m Lia Hawke, and these are Varric and Fenris.  Obviously, you know Anders all too well.”

 

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows.  “You are the Champion of Kirkwall?  I see Anders has once again found someone famous to tolerate him.”

 

“Ugh.”  Lia rolled her eyes.  “I really hate that title.  Please, just call me Lia.”

 

“Yeah, and just call him Ser Broody,” muttered Anders.

 

Varric cocked his head with interest.  “Really?  More broody than Fenris?”

 

“I’m not broody,” growled Fenris.

 

Nathaniel held up his hand, shaking his head.  “Before Anders and I start a whole new insulting contest here, I need to go look for any of my men who might have survived.  Can you help me?”

 

“Lead the way,” replied Lia, hoisting her staff grimly.

 

They followed Nathaniel through several passages to a large room full of crumpled pillars.  A dwarf stood nearby, hunkered down next to an explosive.

 

“Temmerin!” called Nathaniel.

 

“Hey, Commander!”  The dwarf waved them over.  “I wasn’t sure you were still alive!”

 

“I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for these people.”  Nathaniel gestured to the others with him.  “Temmerin, are these explosives ready to blast?”

 

“They sure are, Commander.  We are ready to blow the darkspawn to the surface if we have to!”

 

As if the enemy heard the challenge, there came screams from the other end of the vast cavern.  Nathaniel looked up to see a group of darkspawn approaching, accompanied by an ogre.

 

“Temmerin, get out of here.  The way out is open now.  We’ll take care of these and follow you out.”

 

“Whatever you say, boss.”  The dwarf gave a sad shake of his head.  “I don’t think anyone else made it.”

 

Nathaniel’s lips set in a thin line.  “We shall avenge them, Temmerin.  Now go!”

 

As the dwarf scampered away, Fenris rushed forward, brandishing his sword.  Varric and Nathaniel loosed their arrows, while Lia and Anders protected the group.  Nathaniel set off the explosives whenever the ogre drew near to one.  After what seemed like hours, the cavern was silent and the floor was littered with dead darkspawn.

 

Lia turned to Nathaniel, who stood with his head bowed.  “I’m sorry we came too late to save more of your men.”

 

Nathaniel brushed his hand tiredly across his forehead.  “It’s my own fault for leading them here.  I hoped to learn something from the ancient thaig that would aid us against the darkspawn, but it proved to be too deadly.”

 

“Find anything of interest?” asked Varric hopefully.

 

Nathaniel drew a longsword of red steel from his belt.  “Well, we did find this.”  He handed it to Lia.  “Please, take it as a token of my gratitude.  If you don’t mind, Temmerin and I will return to Kirkwall with you.  From there, I’ll head home to Amaranthine.”

 

Lia nodded.  “Your company would be welcome.  Let’s go!”

 

As the group made their way out of the Deep Roads, Anders sidled up to Nathaniel.

 

“Nate, why are you the Commander?  What happened to Rielle?”

 

Nathaniel turned his head and gave Anders an unreadable glance.  “You mean after you abandoned her?”

 

Anders grabbed his arm, bringing Nathaniel to an abrupt halt.  “I didn’t abandon her!  Damn it, I was trying to save her from myself!”

 

“Look, Anders.  I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you don’t know what it was like after you left.  Rielle just… died.  It was like the light went out of her.  She just… went through the motions of living.  After a few years, she left with Knight Commander Greagoir to return to the Circle.”

 

The rest of their companions had stopped and was watching the exchange curiously.

 

“Rielle… returned to the Circle?  But she would never do that!”  Anders was aghast.  “She hated it there, as much as I did!”

 

“Well, she is First Enchanter now, Anders.  If you would have stayed, who knows?  Maybe things would have been different.  You never even told us where you were going.”

 

Anders rubbed his eyes in chagrin.  “I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to hurt anyone else, Nate.  Please, believe me.  I had to leave the Wardens before I did any more damage.”

 

Nate reached out to grip his shoulder.  “Whatever it was that happened, Anders, you could have trusted us to help you.  We were your brothers and sisters.  What could be more damaging than disappearing?”

 

Varric coughed.  “Heh.  I’m guessing you haven’t met Anders’s alter ego?”

 

Anders glared at the dwarf, and Lia slashed her hand down in a cut-it-out manner.  “Gentlemen, let’s concentrate on getting back to Kirkwall.  You can sling your barbs at each other then, okay?”

 

 

 

Korval made his way through the gates of the templar compound nervously.  Anything involving magi and templars made him uneasy; anything having to do with _magic_ made him uneasy, which was why he usually dealt in simple blades of steel and silverite.  Good, solid metal was something he could understand, something he could work with.  Magic was… transient, unseen, and dangerous.  It mattered little that magic didn’t affect dwarves the same way it did elves and humans.  Dwarves could still be killed with magic, and he didn’t want to be the one who fell in its path.

 

He had almost refused this latest business proposal, but one didn’t refuse requests from the Knight Commander, not if you valued your career.  When the materials arrived for the project, he had almost thrown them back out, career be damned.  There was something about the idol Meredith had sent that scared the stone out of him.  She had said that it was made from lyrium, but this wasn’t any lyrium he had ever seen, and he had seen plenty during his days in Orzammar.  When he held it in his hands, it almost seemed to vibrate with energy, sending strange tingles up his arms.  The first time he picked it up, he almost dropped it in shock.  After that, he became leery of the strange metal and used tongs to handle it.

 

In spite of the foreignness of the lyrium, it melted in the heat of fire just like all other metals.  He was extra careful to avoid any splashes and kept his arms and hands well covered with thick leather gloves.  When melted to a silvery liquid, the lyrium shimmered with a red glow that hung like a mist over the kiln.  The mist seemed to swirl with a life of his own, and Korval hung back to avoid breathing it in.  He mixed the lyrium slowly over several hours with melted red steel to give it more substance.  The mold had been created to fit the design that Meredith had requested, and the final result when cooled was a greatsword that shone silver and reflected light with a red glow.

 

Even when the weapon was completed, he refused to touch it with bare hands and wrapped it carefully in silk.  It rested in his arms now as he followed a templar guard down the long hallway to Meredith’s office.  He could still feel a faint hum through the silk, and he was anxious to be rid of the burden.  It was a relief when the templar opened the office door and showed him in immediately.

 

Meredith rose from her chair behind the desk.  Her silvery-white hair was covered as always by the hooded gold circlet that designated her rank as Knight Commander.  Her blue eyes had the same hardness as the steel of her armor, and her mouth was set in a grim line that rarely curved in a smile.  Korval bowed and placed the cloth-covered sword on her desk gently.

 

“It is finished, Knight Commander.  I sincerely hope that it meets your expectations.”

 

Meredith reached out to uncover the weapon.  The sunlight streaming in from the window behind her shimmered over the metal and sent sparkles of red to reflect off the walls like stars.  A smile crept over her face as she gripped the hilt and brought the blade before her glinting eyes.

 

“It is perfect, Korval, exactly how I envisioned it.”  She closed her eyes.  “I can almost hear it singing to me.”

 

The dwarf shifted nervously.  “It certainly has some… unusual qualities.  I hope that it will serve you well.”

 

Meredith opened her eyes reluctantly and carefully placed the sword back on the silk.  Opening a drawer in her desk, she fetched a small pouch and tossed it to Korval.

 

“Here is your payment, per our agreement.  You will remember to not discuss this sword or its creation with anyone.  Understood?”

 

Korval nodded swiftly as his fist closed greedily around the pouch.  “Of course, Commander.  No one will hear of it from my mouth.”

 

“Excellent.  You are dismissed.”  The dwarf scurried out the door, which was closed behind him by the guard.  Meredith ran one finger lovingly over the shining blade.  _Together, you and I will bring order to this mage-infested city.  The Circle will submit, and the people of_ _Kirkwall_ _will be safe once again._ The sword seemed to agree as the haunting strains of its song weaved its way into the depths of her mind _._


	6. Chapter 6

Alistair rubbed his temples tiredly and shoved a stack of papers to the side of the desk.  He had to admit that as annoying as Eamon could be, his absence was downright aggravating.  The Seneschal usually handled the more routine paperwork, sparing Alistair the boredom; however, Eamon was still visiting Redcliffe _.  Maker, but I could use a distraction right now, preferably good news_.

 

As if the Maker were responding to his thought, a knock sounded at his office door.  _Well, that was fast_.

 

“Come in!”

 

The door opened to admit Sergeant Kylon, who immediately bowed deeply.  Alistair wearily gestured for him to rise.

 

“Kylon, you know how I hate formalities.  No need to bow, just talk to me like I’m anyone else.”

 

“Majesty, you’re not just anyone else.”  Alistair sighed in defeat and gestured for him to continue.  “There is someone here to see you, Your Majesty.  He said that you would be willing to see him immediately.”

 

Alistair frowned.  “Who is he?”

 

Kylon rubbed his chin nervously.  “He asked me not to say, Sire.  He wanted it to be a surprise.”

 

“Oh, really?”  Alistair raised his eyebrows.  “Well, if you think he’s harmless, show him in.  I could use a break at the moment.”

 

Kylon shifted uncomfortably.  “He’s not exactly _harmless_ , but I think you have nothing to fear, Sire.”

 

“Well, bring him in then, Kylon.”  _Just who is this brazen person_?  Later, he would tell himself that he should have known. 

 

The blond elf entered and dropped into a graceful bow, and Alistair was too shocked to think coherently.

 

“ _Zevran_?”

 

“Sì, Your Majesty.”  Zevran straightened up with a mocking grin and promptly draped himself over the chair in front of Alistair’s desk, slinging one leg languidly over the arm.  He was dressed in fine leather armor in shades of brown and dark green.  His flaxen hair flowed below his shoulder blades, with the customary braids tying it back from his tanned face.  There were a few more lines at the corners of his flashing amber eyes, but he was still as lithe and handsome as ever.

 

“You look well, my King.”  Zevran took in the paper-strewn desktop.  “Keeping busy, I see.”

 

Alistair struggled to get his mind and mouth working again.  “Well… just the usual tedious stuff,” he replied lamely _.  Come on, Alistair_ , he thought, _you sound like the naive idiotic templar all over again_.  “You look… almost exactly the same.”  _Yes, definitely idiotic_.

 

Zevran chuckled.  “Come now, Majesty, we have both grown a little older, no?  Nevertheless, I have strived to retain my charm in the hope that you might yet be amenable to an Antivan massage.”

 

Alistair flushed and dropped his head into his hand with a groan.  “You definitely haven’t changed at all, have you?  Please… at least don’t call me Majesty.  It sounds odd coming from you.”

 

“And here I was trying to sound fashionably formal.  But I do prefer saying _Alistair.”_ Zevran drew out the name with a purr.  “Such a _deliciously_ sexy name if you say it just right.”

 

Alistair couldn’t resist any longer; he laughed.  “Maker, Zev, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it is terribly good to see you.”

 

“Indeed?”  Zevran’s brow furrowed.  “I must say I’m surprised to hear that, given our entertaining history of disagreements.”

 

“I know, but things have been so tense here lately, and it is good to have someone here who I can talk to without waiting for them to quit bowing.”  Alistair sounded wistful, and Zevran frowned in concern.  Alistair hurried to continue before the elf could make a comment.  “Anora was assassinated by a Crow, Zev.”

 

“Sì, I know this already.  It is why I’m here, my old friend.”

 

“And to think I was saying only a few weeks ago that I wished you were here to help me figure it all out.”  A strange look flickered in Zevran’s eyes at Alistair’s revelation, but he said nothing.  “But seriously?  You came because you heard about it?”

 

“I received some advice… suggesting that my assistance might be necessary.”  When Alistair opened his mouth, Zevran waved his hand dismissively.  “It doesn’t matter who.  What does matter is that I did some research concerning your… wife’s untimely demise.”

 

“Was the assassin truly a Crow?”

 

“He was a member of a small Crow cell that probably hoped to achieve some recognition for their accomplishment.  The cell is unimportant; it is the client that you should be concerned with.”

 

Alistair leaned forward eagerly.  “Did you discover who the client was?”

 

Zevran sighed.  “Unfortunately, I was unable to acquire a name.  I tracked my lead to Kirkwall and was followed by the same cell that sent the assassin to kill Anora.  They are dead now, of course.”  Zevran flicked his hand lazily as if eradicating an entire Crow cell was barely a feat worth mentioning.   “But I found a letter that I presume was sent by the client.  The letter was signed only by a symbol, the emblem of the Orlesian bards.”

 

Alistair slumped back in his chair.  “A _bard_ hired the Crows to kill Anora and possibly me?”  He rubbed his face grimly.  “Then it’s entirely possible that an Orlesian noble or the queen herself is behind this.”

 

“You think the same as I do, my friend, but I have no evidence yet that would point to the throne.  I regret that I ended my investigation at that point.  I felt that it was more important to come here and inform you of my findings before anymore… incidents… occurred.”

 

“I am grateful, Zevran, more than you know.  You certainly don’t owe me anything, yet you did this much for me.”

 

“Tsk.”  Zevran waved away Alistair’s gratitude.  “We spent two years together and fought an Archdemon, no?  Anyway, I was becoming _tediously_ bored killing people in Antiva.”  His face turned somber.  “May I offer condolences on your loss?”

 

“Thank you.”  Alistair rose abruptly and went to stare out the window.  “To be honest, I think it has affected my son more than me.  Anora was always much more… affectionate with him.”

 

A look of consternation crossed the assassin’s face, but Alistair didn’t see it.  “I was aware that the marriage was formed out of necessity, but surely it improved over time?”

 

“No.”  Alistair bowed his head.  “I _tried_ , Maker knows I did, but it was never enough.”  He shook himself and turned back to Zevran with a rueful smile.  “Never mind; you’re not here to listen to me brood.  Would you perhaps be interested in a job?”

 

Zevran cocked his head curiously.  “Does it involve something lecherous?”  He leered at Alistair and winked.

 

“No!”  Alistair laughed.  “It’s rather mundane, I’m afraid.  Basically, I could use protection for my son and myself.  Kylon is doing a fine job, but I could someone who knows how to look for possible threats.”  At Zevran’s raised eyebrows, he flushed.  “Of course, if you have other plans, you can decline.  I know you probably have many marks waiting for your attention.”

 

Zevran smiled and stretched his legs.  “Actually, I have some time to devote to other… pursuits.  Since Kylon was clearly unable to protect your family from one assassin and we are uncertain if there are others to come, I think perhaps that my expertise may prove useful.”  He stood and bowed.  “I hereby offer my services to the King of Ferelden until such time as we both agree that they are no longer necessary.”

 

A look of relief washed over Alistair’s face.  “Thank you, Zev.  That’s a load of worry off of my mind.  But there _is_ one requirement for this position.”  Zevran looked questioningly at him.  “Do _not_ call me King.”

 

“Very well,” chuckled Zevran as he moved to leave the office.  “Perhaps you miss being called pike-twirler?  I think I can remember to use _that_ if you wish.”  At Alistair’s groan, he grinned and sauntered out.

 

 

Leliana looked around the Hanged Man with confusion.  The tavern was quite busy this evening, and every table was full of people drinking away their weariness.  Actually, a drink didn’t sound like such a bad idea; it had been a very long day at the templar headquarters in the Gallows.  She had met with both Meredith and Orsino separately, and then had interviewed several mages and templars.  The situation in Kirkwall appeared to be quite grim.  The templars were cracking down hard on the mages, enforcing curfews and locking up the mages in the Gallows at night.  All too often, mages were disappearing after being accused of blood magic with no evidence.  They were never seen again.  Orsino adamantly declared that none of the Circle mages were using blood magic and that Meredith was using false accusations to abuse her authority.  The other mages she interviewed agreed with this assessment, and their anger was bordering on open defiance.

 

Meredith had presented a cool and impersonal demeanor at first.  She had courteously greeted Leliana and welcomed her to Kirkwall, stating that she was delighted that the Divine was taking a personal interest in Kirkwall’s troubles.  She insisted that her actions were appropriate and that the mages were becoming more difficult to control.  As she continued to outline the Circle’s supposed crimes, her face became more tense and her tone began to unravel into a ranting fury.  Leliana was troubled to discover that Meredith’s views were bordering on the extreme and held no possibility for compromise.  If the Knight Commander was unwilling to meet Orsino halfway, there was definitely going to be trouble with the Circle.

 

This view was clearly shared by Knight Captain Cullen.  Leliana vaguely remembered meeting Cullen at the Ferelden Circle.  Back then, he had appeared almost fanatical in his hatred of mages, but time seemed to have tempered his views.  While he supported Meredith whole-heartedly in her actions to contain the Circle, he was worried about her numerous accusations of blood magic.  When he tried to investigate these claims, he could find no evidence, yet this did not deter her.  He admitted with reluctance that Meredith appeared to be losing her ability to remain impartial.

 

Disturbed and apprehensive, Leliana had decided to take a break from the oppressive atmosphere of the Gallows and set out to seek information on the Deep Roads expedition the Champion had participated in.  To her surprise, she discovered that the Ferelden Warden Commander was in town and had just returned from the Deep Roads that very day.  Apparently, the Commander had attempted to retrace the expedition’s route, but returned with markedly fewer men.  Rumors were buzzing throughout the city that the Primeval Thaig was cursed, since not even Grey Wardens could conquer it.

 

The last that Leliana had heard, Rielle Surana was the Warden Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, and she excitedly looked forward to meeting up with her old comrade.  Several inquiries led her to the Hanged Man, where the Warden Commander was supposed to be staying.  As she anxiously scanned the tavern’s main room, however, she saw no sign of the raven-haired mage she had befriended during the Blight.  She carefully maneuvered through the crowded tables to the bar.

 

“Can you possibly tell me if the Warden Commander of Ferelden is here tonight?  I heard she was staying here,” she asked the bartender.

 

“Eh, he’s right over there,” pointed the tired-looking man.  Leliana looked with confusion at a small table in a darkened corner of the room where a lone, dark-haired man sat drinking slowly from a tin mug.  Unsure if the bartender knew who he was pointing to, she decided to approach the man and inquire if he knew the Commander.

 

As she neared the table, the man looked up at her curiously.  He had the weary look of a man who has traveled for too long and too hard.  His dark hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and his clothes were ragged and dusty.  His gray eyes, however, were sharp and he had the look of someone who missed little.

 

“May I help you?” he inquired in a clipped tone.

 

“I’m looking for the Warden Commander.  Would you happen to know where I can find her?”

 

“Well, if you’re looking for the Ferelden Commander, I am him.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “Last I noticed, I was still a man.”

 

Leliana flushed in embarrassment.  “My apologies, Commander.  I have been out of touch with Ferelden affairs and thought that Rielle Surana was still the leader of the Grey Wardens there.”

 

“She resigned from the position a few years ago and the command passed to me.”  The man extended his hand courteously.  “I’m Nathaniel.  Was there something you needed to see the Warden Commander about?”

 

Leliana smiled, relieved that he didn’t appear to be angry at her mistake.  “I’m Leliana, and I come from the Orlesian Chantry.  I hoped to discuss your recent foray into the Deep Roads.”

 

Nathaniel looked at her closely.  “Leliana?  There was a Leliana who assisted Rielle and King Alistair during the Blight.  Are you her?”

 

“I am.  I returned to Orlais after the Blight ended and rejoined the Chantry.  I am now a Seeker for the Divine.”

 

“Indeed?  A Seeker?”  Nathaniel leaned back in his chair and regarded her warily.  “And why does a Seeker wish to inquire about the Deep Roads?”

 

“The Divine wishes to learn more about the Primeval Thaig.  She did not express her reasons for her curiosity to me.”

 

Nathaniel tapped the table with his fingers thoughtfully.  “It is discreetly known that the Chantry controls the lyrium trade in Thedas.  I wonder if I would be too far off the mark in guessing that the Divine would be interested in the new form of lyrium discovered in the Primeval Thaig.”

 

 _This man is far too clever_ , thought Leliana.  _Not bad-looking either, in a rugged sort of way_.  She decided that being honest with the Commander would be more beneficial than being evasive.  “I have wondered this myself, but of course, I do not question the motives of the Divine.”

 

Nathaniel nodded with a smile.  “Of course.”  He took a long drink from his mug.  “May I buy you a drink, Leliana?”

 

“You know, some wine would really hit the spot right now,” she grinned.  “I would be quite grateful for your generosity.”

 

The Commander waved at a nearby waitress and asked her to bring a glass of wine.  “You know, Rielle spoke of her Blight companions quite fondly and quite often.  I think she almost missed traveling with her old friends.”

 

Leliana smiled and closed her eyes as she remembered the old days spent wandering the roads of Ferelden fighting darkspawn.  “When you spend two years fighting alongside a group of people, there’s a bond that forms whether you like them or not.”

 

Nathaniel nodded in agreement.  “I felt the same way when we helped Rielle establish her position in Amaranthine.  When I first met her, I wanted to kill her of course.”  He smiled fondly in reminiscence.

 

Leliana almost choked with laughter.  “She seems to have that affect on many people.  But why did you want to kill her?”

 

“She killed my father.”  Nathaniel stared directly into her eyes.  “My father was Rendon Howe.”

 

 _Oh, Maker_.  She struggled to find the words to reply to that revelation.  “Oh, dear.  My apologies; I didn’t know.”  _He does have that same nose, although it certainly looks much better on him than his father_.

 

“Of course not.  I didn’t tell you my last name.”  Leliana was saved from more embarrassment by the waitress, who set a glass of red wine on the table.  Murmuring her thanks, she took a quick gulp while trying to think of how to maneuver out of such a complicated topic.

 

“Tell me,” said Nathaniel in a soft, neutral voice. “Were you there when Rielle killed my father?”

 

Leliana tried not to squirm beneath that penetrating gaze.  “Yes.”  She twirled the wine glass between her fingers uncomfortably.  “She gave him a quick death, if that means anything.”

 

Nathaniel dropped his eyes.  “She told me the same.  I apologize for making you uncomfortable, Leliana.  After all these years, it shouldn’t still affect me the way that it does, but some things are hard to leave in the past.”  Leliana could see the pain in the depths of his slate-gray eyes.  He closed them briefly and when he reopened them, they were impassive once more.  “But you didn’t seek me out to talk about the past.  You wish to know about the Primeval Thaig?”

 

“If you would be so kind as to tell me about your adventure, I would be quite grateful.”

 

The Commander gave a bitter laugh.  “It wasn’t much of an adventure, my Lady.  I entered the Roads with ten men and left with one.  Definitely _not_ a successful venture.”  He took another gulp of ale.  “I’ll tell you what.  I’m rather exhausted tonight, having just returned this afternoon.  Tomorrow, I had planned to return to Ferelden.  I have decided to pay a visit to Rielle on my way to Vigil’s Keep.  She is the First Enchanter of the Circle now.”

 

“Really?  How strange,” mused Leliana.  “She always talked as if she hated the Circle.”

 

“I had the same impression, yet she gave up her command to return there.”  Nathaniel drained the last of his ale.  “I wished to discuss my observations of the Thaig with her since she also may be interested in the lyrium.  I also desire to get her opinion on the Queen’s assassination.  I assume you know of Anora’s death?”

 

“Oh, yes,” replied Leliana sadly.  “Poor Alistair.  I’ve been wondering how he is coping.”

 

“As do I,” said Nathaniel.  “Rielle knew Alistair probably better than anyone.  I personally have only met the King on a few occasions.  I am concerned about what the ramifications of the assassination will be.  Rielle may have some valuable insights.  The Grey Wardens strive to remain apart from politics, but I am also the Arl of Amaranthine.  If the country is in danger of going through another upheaval, I would like to be prepared.”  He gave Leliana a shy smile.  “If you wish, my Lady, you may accompany me to Ferelden, and I shall tell you of my rather foolish venture into the Primeval Thaig.  I think Rielle will also be pleased to see you.  She has been somewhat melancholy in the past several years, and I have to admit that I’ve been concerned about her.  A visit from an old friend would do her a world of good.”

 

Leliana thought about his invitation quickly.  She could send a letter to the Divine giving a summary of her interviews with Meredith and Orsino, and inform her superior that her investigation into the Primeval Thaig necessitated a journey to Ferelden.  She doubted that the detour would raise any objection, and she had to admit to herself that it would be fun to see Rielle again.  Nathaniel’s concern for the mage also worried her.  Perhaps Rielle was in need of a friend.

 

“That would be lovely, Commander.  I shall pack my things tonight and meet you here in the morning if that is acceptable?”

 

Nathaniel rose and gave her a courteous bow.  “Your company shall be most welcome, my Lady.  Perhaps you can regale me with stories about your adventures during the Blight while we travel.  I look forward to seeing you in the morning.  Have a good evening.”  He turned and disappeared up the stairs.

 

Leliana finished her wine and weaved back through the tables and back out into the twilight of Lowtown.  As she walked back to the Chantry, she smiled at the thought of traveling with the handsome Commander _.  It shall be nice to be on the road of adventure again.  I didn’t realize how much I have missed it_.  Humming softly to herself, she lifted her face to the cool breeze as the first leaves of autumn floated down around her.

 

 

Zevran sat under a large oak tree in the Palace garden with his legs folded across each other and his hands resting loosely on his knees.  His eyes were closed, the muscles of his face soft and relaxed.  To the casual observer, he appeared to be dozing, but every sense was alert, even as he kept his mind clear and unfocused.  He had learned the technique of conscious relaxation long ago, and it served to keep his mind sharp and uncluttered.  On cool autumn evenings such as this, he preferred to perform this exercise outdoors, allowing the sounds and sensations of nature to center and calm his soul.  Often, he would use the exercise to review things that had happened during the day.

 

After every muscle was loose and pliant and his head was clear of thought, he slowly brought each day’s observation to his mind and analyzed it.  It seemed that his thoughts constantly centered on his meeting with Alistair.  His sharp eyes had not missed the obvious relief on the King’s face when he had seen Zevran enter his office.  Given their past rivalry over Rielle and their many arguments over morals, Zevran had been expecting a more guarded welcome.  After hearing Alistair’s comment on the sorry state of his marriage to Anora, Zevran deduced that the King was probably isolated and lonely.  None of the Blight companions had remained in Denerim to lend their friendship in support of Alistair.  Even Rielle, who had chosen Alistair over Zevran, had fled after the wedding.  So they had both been tossed aside by the beautiful elven mage, a fact that had ended any animosity Zevran held toward Alistair.

 

Alistair’s request for him to stay had been a further surprise.  He had intended to relay his findings, spend a few days in Denerim visiting old haunts, and then return to Antiva, having fulfilled his sense of duty.  He had been even more shocked when he heard himself accepting Alistair’s offer.  _What in the name of the Maker was I thinking when I agreed to that_?  He had to admit, however, that spending some time stirring up trouble in Ferelden had a certain appeal.  If nothing else, teasing Alistair would provide sufficient entertainment.

 

Years of developing a sixth sense warned Zevran that someone else was nearby and watching him.  He opened his eyes slowly and scanned the garden.  His gaze instantly lighted upon a small, tow-headed boy peeking out at him curiously from behind a bush.  Holding himself completely still, he returned the shy gaze passively and waited for the child to overcome his hesitancy.

 

Sure enough, gaining confidence in himself, the boy slowly left his hiding place and approached Zevran as if he were closing in on a wild animal.  Zevran smiled gently and spoke quietly in his lilting, native tongue.

 

“ _Hola, mi_ _chico_.  Are you also enjoying the garden?”

 

“I like it here,” replied the boy shyly.  “It’s always quiet and pretty.  Daddy lets me play here all I want.”

 

“Ahh.  And did you come here to play tonight?”

 

“Nurse said I could play a little bit before I go to bed.”  The boy took a few steps closer.  “Are you an elf?”

 

Zevran grinned and traced his pointed ear with one finger.  “Sì.  You are smart to see this so quickly.”

 

“What does sì mean?”

 

“It means _yes_ in my language.  I come from Antiva.”

 

“Where is Antiva?”

 

“Ah, it is across the ocean, far away.  You would have to take a boat to get there.”

 

“Oh, I like boats!”  The boy smiled widely in excitement.  “Daddy says that some day when it’s safe, he will take me on a boat.”  The boy frowned.  “It’s not safe right now.  My mother died.”

 

Zevran nodded gravely.  “Yes, I had heard of this.  I am deeply sorry.”

 

“Everyone tells me that.  Someday I’ll see her again though.  I know it.”

 

Zevran returned his gaze solemnly.  “I have heard it said that those who die look down on us from the stars.  And when it is time for us to go, those same stars will light our way to them.”

 

“Oh, I like that!  Do you think it’s really true?”

 

“Yes, little one, I do.  Might I ask your name?”

 

The boy thumped his chest proudly.  “I’m Duncan.  Daddy says I’m named after a hero.  What’s your name?”

 

“I am Zevran, but my friends call me Zev.”

 

The boy smiled at him shyly.  “Can I be your friend, Zev?”

 

“You may if I can be yours as well.”

 

“Of course!  I like having friends.  Hey, would you like to see my boat?  It’s over there in the fountain.”

 

Zevran rose to his feet and extended a slender hand.  “I would be absolutely delighted if you would show me your boat.  Will you show me the way?”

 

Duncan reached up and took his hand eagerly.  “Sure!  I know where everything is here.  Come on!”  As the assassin and young prince wandered off down the path, neither of them noticed Alistair watching from the shadows of a nearby doorway.  He smiled in satisfaction as he watched the pair disappear among the trees, the small boy chattering happily to the serene, attentive elf at his side.


	7. Chapter 7

Connor walked resolutely down the Tower hallway with his hands jammed into the pockets of his robes.  He kept his eyes locked forward, ignoring the stares of the magi and apprentices he passed.  When he reached the stairs leading to the top floor of the Tower, he gave a brief nod to the templar guard who acknowledged him by standing aside.  Taking a deep breath, he opened the heavy door and began to climb up the spiral staircase to the topmost floor of the Circle Tower, which was reserved for Harrowings.

 

The Harrowing Chamber was circular with a skylight in the roof.  The last light of the day filtered weakly down into the Chamber, which was also rimmed with torches to give additional light.  At the center of the room was a basin filled to the brim with swirling blue lyrium.  Standing in a loose group around the pedestal waited a small group of people:  First Enchanter Rielle Surana, Knight Commander Greagoir, and two templars.  Rielle smiled at him encouragingly, but the templars appeared grim and apprehensive.

 

Rielle beckoned him to approach, and Connor smoothed his hand nervously over his unruly red hair.  He was well aware that at sixteen, he was the youngest apprentice to ever undergo the Harrowing.  There had been murmurs of surprise among his peers and a few grumbles of resentment, but Connor ignored all of these.  The First Enchanter had expressed her faith in him, and he was determined to live up to her expectations.  He kept his eyes focused on Rielle as he approached the basin and strived to appear more confident than he felt.

 

The First Enchanter gave him a grave nod, but her eyes were calm and smiling.

 

“Welcome, Connor.  Tonight we gather to watch you undergo your Harrowing, which if you succeed will allow you to assume the title of Circle Mage.  Are you ready?”

 

“I am, First Enchanter.”

 

“Once the rite is initiated, there is no turning back, Connor.  Therefore, I am required to offer you a choice before we begin.  If you wish to become a mage, then you must take this test.  If you have decided that you do not wish to pursue magic, then you may choose to become Tranquil.”  At Connor’s look of horror, she raised a hand.  “I am well aware that you desire to achieve the title of Mage, Connor, but rules dictate that I ask.  Occasionally, there are apprentices who despise their skills and do not wish to become mages.”

 

“I choose the Harrowing, First Enchanter.”

 

She gave a nod of approval.  “Very well.  I will now explain what will be required of you in this test.”  She gestured to the basin of lyrium.  “Our magic derives from the Fade, and magi are unique in their ability to enter the Fade even when they are not dreaming.  This can only be achieved by the use of specially prepared lyrium.  For your Harrowing, you will enter the Fade, where you will be confronted by a demon that has been summoned for you.  The demon will attempt to possess you, and you must resist it to succeed in your test.  Once you have defeated it, you will return to this world and take your rightful place in the Circle.”

 

Greagoir cleared his throat.  “If you fail in resisting the demon and become possessed, you will be killed, Connor.  We will not allow an abomination to be loosed on this world.  Be warned that if you seem to be taking too long to defeat the demon, we will feel compelled to kill you rather than take the chance.”

 

Connor gave a slow nod.  “I understand and am ready.”

 

Rielle reached for a goblet and dipped it into the basin.  Cradling it in both hands, she offered it to Connor.

 

“Be slow to anger and careful in thought.  Keep your mind focused on truth and the demon will have no power over you.”

 

Connor took the goblet and keeping his eyes focused on Rielle, drained the cup quickly.  It was the first time he had ever drank lyrium, as only magi were allowed to use it.  It tasted almost sickeningly sweet, with a strange metallic tang that reminded him of the faint odor left in the air after lightning strikes.  He closed his eyes and felt an odd sort of humming sensation that started in his chest and spread outward to his limbs.  The humming increased steadily until he felt as if his entire body was vibrating with electric energy.  Suddenly, he felt as if he was being thrust roughly through a sheet of ice, and he quickly opened his eyes to steady himself.

 

 _He is surrounded by a gray landscape that is a poor parody of the real world.  He is standing in a clearing surrounded by trees and rocks that are not trees and rocks.  When he turns his eyes to focus on them, they stretch and distort like strands of sticky honey, and when he shifts his gaze, they return to a normal appearance out of the corner of his eye.  He quickly realizes that in order to see here in the Fade, one must look with their side vision, much like at night in the dark.  The clearing is on a hilltop and if he looks in the distance with his peripheral vision, he can see jagged towers clawing at the gray sunless sky.  This is the famed_   
_Black_   
  
_City_   
_, and a part of him longs to set his path toward those buildings, to go and see for himself the ruined seat of the Maker.  But this is a foolish notion, and he knows that no mortal can set foot in that hallowed place._

 _The clearing is empty except for a stump that is not a stump.  He draws his staff and sits down upon it, leaning against the polished wood of his only weapon.  He waits, and time passes without meaning.  It could be seconds or hours when he finally looks up to see a figure standing at the edge of the clearing.  The figure does not have the surrealism of the rest of the Fade; he can look directly at it and see it clearly.  As his eyes widen with disbelief, the woman approaches him and he can see the soft brown eyes in the pale face framed by brunette hair pulled into a bun.  She is beautiful, she is young, and she is his mother._

 _He has not seen her since her death eight years ago, and his memory is fogged with time, but there can be little doubt that this is Isolde.  As he struggles to find the proper words, she smiles benevolently and extends her hand to him._

 _“Connor.  I have been waiting for you.”_

 _He almost stands and takes her hand.   Oh, how he wants to touch her!  Everything about her rings with familiarity.  But he has not forgotten where he is, nor has he forgotten the test he must pass._

 _“I am not so easily deceived, demon.  My mother is dead, and she stands at the side of the Maker.”_

 _Isolde smiles sadly at the poor boy who is so clearly confused and lost.  “Do you think so, Connor?  Some spirits reside here for a while before they move on to the Maker.  Do you not think your mother would wait for you?”_

Be slow to anger and careful in thought _._

 _“My mother would not come to me during my Harrowing, but a demon would.”_

 _Isolde laughs with a melody like a wind chime.  “My dear boy, you have been deceived all of your life.  Only now are you confronted with truth, and you do not even realize it!”_

 _Connor narrows his eyes.  “If you say you have truth for me, then speak it.”_

 _Isolde holds out her hand and the air next to her shimmers with colors.  It is like watching a reflection in the water, but he can make out a hall that he recognizes as the main hall in_   
_Redcliffe_   
  
_Castle_   
_where he grew up.  As the reflection ripples slowly, he can make out several figures standing together.  One of them is Isolde, and his Uncle Teagan stands beside her with his hand on her shoulder.  Before them stand a mage with dark hair and an unkempt face and next to him is a woman he knows well, Rielle.  While he watches, the Isolde in the reflection drops to her knees in prayer, and Teagan and Rielle step away from her.  The dark haired mage is closing his eyes and stretching his hand out over Isolde, while his lips move in a mumbled chant.  Suddenly, Isolde is raised from the ground, her back arching, her mouth open in a silent scream.  Blood explodes from her chest and sprays across the robes of the mage.  As Connor watches in horror, the mage is surrounded with a reddened aura, and his mother collapses to the floor, lifeless as a rag doll._

 _The Isolde-demon waves her hand and the vision vanishes, leaving a foul taste in Connor’s mouth.  He turns and spits on the ground, struggling to control his wrenching stomach._

 _“Look inside yourself, Connor, and know that what you saw was the truth.”_

 _“But why?  Why was my mother killed by a blood mage?”_

 _Isolde sighs and shakes her head sorrowfully.  “Such misunderstanding they had, my boy.  You see, your father had been poisoned by that very same blood mage.  You were understandably distressed; what young boy wouldn’t be?  Even then, your power was strong and you asked me for help.  We made a deal, Connor.  I saved your father’s life, and you allowed me to become a part of you, to help you learn how to use your magic.”_

 _“No…”  Connor lowered his head to his hand in denial._

 _“Of course, you did.  It was the right thing to do, and your father lived!  But the others, your uncle and Rielle Surana, they didn’t like you having that power, Connor.  They wanted to destroy our bond, so they asked that deplorable blood mage to help them.  He killed your mother, your sweet trusting mother, in order to send Rielle to the Fade to kill us.”_

 _“But… I am still alive.”_

 _“I would not let her kill you, child.  I knew there would come a time when you would return to me, so I let them cast me from you, and I have waited.  Now, here you are, and we can bond together again, Connor.  All the power you could wish for will be yours, and we shall destroy those who murdered your mother.”_

 _There are tears streaming down his face, and he reaches up to touch them.  Revenge and enough magic to keep the templars from him forever, such desires float before his eyes like forbidden candy.  They are within his reach and he need only say yes._

Keep your mind focused on truth and the demon will have no power over you _._

 _But this truth is bitter, like the dregs of elfroot at the bottom of a restoration potion.  For here in the Fade, his suppressed memory has been released, and he knows that the scene he just saw truly did happen._ They never told me; they let me believe that she died from a sickness. _Rage flares through his body like a scorching flame.  He lets the fury build inside him like a storm.  Raising his face, he meets the demon’s gaze with a hard stare of his own._

 _“So_ that _is why you feel so familiar to me.  You have possessed me before, haven’t you demon?”_

 _Isolde frowns and a glimpse of uncertainty flickers in her eyes.  “I saved your father from certain death.  I gave you power to bend others to your will.”_

 _“And because of you, my mother died to transport Rielle to the Fade, to destroy you and your control over me.  Is this not the truth, demon?”  His hair is whipping in a silent wind, and the crackle of electricity fills the clearing.  The storm builds and gathers and his rage fuels it._

 _Isolde opens her mouth and screams at him, a keening wail of fury.  Her body contorts and curls on itself in a purple swirl.  She raises her head and her face is beautiful beyond measure, but her eyes are black and dead.  Purple horns sweep back from her forehead, and her violet body unfolds before him in sinuous naked glory._

 _“Truth is fleeting and malleable, my young mage.  I will extend my offer one last time.  Join with me and have your heart’s desire.  Your mother will live again, and together we will make those who killed her pay with their lives.  No one will have the power to subdue you, and you will be free to do as you wish.”_

 _Flames explode in a circle around the clearing.  Wind shrieks around them as lightning whips wildly above their heads.  Connor extends his arms, his staff pointing at the demon floating defiantly before him._

 _“There will be no deal this time.  My power is my own, and you will suffer the brunt of it in your arrogance.”_

 _Closing his eyes, he lets go, and the storm unleashes on the clearing and consumes everything within it.  Ice gathers around him and shatters the Fade into pieces._

“Connor!  Connor, wake up!”

 

Breathing raggedly, Connor opened his eyes.  He was kneeling on the cold, stone floor and Rielle was hovering over him with a concerned hand on his shoulder.  His face was wet with tears, and his staff lay on the floor next to him.

 

“Connor, it’s over.  You did it.”  She smiled down at him, elated at his victory.

 

He struggled to his feet, staring at her with sad eyes.

 

“You lied to me.”

 

A look of surprised hurt crossed her face, but the regret in her eyes told him everything.

 

“So, the demon told you the truth.”  Her voice cracked with sorrow, and she lowered her gaze to the floor.

 

“Enough of it.  And you were right, the truth destroyed her power over me.  Strangely, you no longer hold any power over me either.  To think that I used to look up to you…”

 

He bent, picked up his staff, and left the Chamber without a backward glance.  Rielle made as if to go after him, but Greagoir grabbed her arm.

 

“Give him time, Rielle.  He will need to deal with the truth of his past by himself.”

 

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and nodded reluctantly.  He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and left the Chamber with his templars.  Rielle remained standing listlessly by the basin, letting her tears fall unhindered into the blue pool of lyrium.

 

 

Lia plopped down on the empty cot at the back of the clinic next to the one currently occupied by Anders.  He was lying on his back with one arm flung across his face and barely even moved when he noticed her presence.  She sighed and kicked the rickety leg of his cot.

 

“Damn it, Anders.  I haven’t seen you since we came back from the Deep Roads.  Are you sick or just being reclusive?”

 

“Can I say that I’m both?”

 

“No,” she said flatly.  “Spill it, Anders.  What’s going on?  Does it have to do with that conversation you had with Nathaniel?”

 

Anders sighed and turned his face to the wall.  “Sort of.”

 

“So… you had a relationship with the Hero of Ferelden and then ran out on her?”

 

Anders whipped his head around and glared at her.  “I did _not_ run out on her!  I was forced to leave!”  He rubbed his hand over his unshaven face.  “I never meant to hurt her, I swear.”

 

“You want to talk about it?”

 

He stared at the ceiling.  “I met Rielle when she came to Amaranthine.  Actually, I met her while I was throwing fireballs at darkspawn.”  He chuckled at the memory.  “I just happened to be there by accident.  The templars had stopped at Vigil’s Keep on their way back to the Circle.  They were returning me to that prison after my seventh escape attempt.”

 

“You escaped from the Circle seven times?”  She was aghast.

 

Anders grinned.  “I sure did, and I think it was a record.  Anyway, after we fought the darkspawn, Rielle conscripted me into the Wardens to prevent the templars from returning me to the Tower.  It was my first true taste of freedom.”

 

“So you joined the Wardens and fell in love with Rielle?”

 

“We fell in love with each other.”  He smiled and closed his eyes.  “Maker, but she was _amazing_ , beautiful, and she felt the same way about the Circle as I did.  We would make love, talk about how we could free magi, and then make love again.  We had dreams of abolishing the Circle and freeing magi forever from the rule of the Chantry.  Everything was perfect.”

 

“So what happened to ruin it?”

 

“Justice did.”  His hands clenched into fists.  “Well, it wasn’t his fault; it was mine.  He was fascinated with my stories about the Circle; he agreed that it was completely wrong to separate magi from the rest of society.  He wanted to help me, and he needed a host.  The one he was using was already a corpse and was decaying rapidly.”  He grimaced.  “I thought that together, we could do wonderful things for magi everywhere.”

 

Lia sighed.  “Except that it wasn’t entirely wonderful, was it?”

 

He shook his head sorrowfully.  “No, it wasn’t.  I had too much hatred inside me, and it changed Justice.  Justice is impartial; vengeance is not.”

 

“Did it even occur to you that you were allowing yourself to become an abomination?”

 

“I didn’t see it that way.  An abomination has lost all control over the spirit that possesses it.  At first, I still had complete control, and I was foolish enough to believe that I could prevent Justice from taking over.”  He laughed bitterly.  “Obviously, I was wrong.”

 

“So you left?”

 

“I was approached by some of my fellow Wardens who said that I was an abomination, and they threatened to expose me to Rielle.  They wanted me out of the Wardens.  I… lost control, and when I came to, they were all dead.  Justice had killed them.”  He covered his eyes.  “I didn’t know what else to do, so I fled.  I was afraid that Rielle would hate me for what I had done, and I couldn’t face that.”

 

“You never even sent her a message?”

 

“What would I have said?”  His voice was full of anguish.  “Sweetheart, I’m terribly sorry, but I merged with Justice and we both just killed some of your men.  Would it be okay if I returned?”

 

Lia grimaced.  “Well no, you wouldn’t say that…”

 

“I tried to make up for killing those men.  I came here and opened a healing clinic for Ferelden refugees who had no money.  And then I met you, and you gave me a chance.”  He looked at her.  “I’m grateful for that, Hawke.  You’ve been very supportive; it’s kept me going when I’ve wanted to give up.”

 

“Maybe it’s not too late, Anders.  You can still return to Ferelden and find Rielle.”

 

He shook his head grimly.  “No, not yet.  First, I have to fix things… make it right.”  He looked hopefully at Lia.  “In fact, if you would be willing to help me, I can finish what I need to do much more quickly.”

 

Lia narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.  “What do you need, Anders?”

 

He held up his hands in a reassuring gesture.  “I only need help in collecting some things I need.  I think I’ve found a way to separate myself from Justice.  If you can assist me in finding the crafting materials I need, perhaps I have a chance of becoming myself again.”

 

“Of course I’ll help you, Anders.  We all will.”

 

Relief flooded his face.  “Thank you, Hawke.  You don’t know what it means to me.  I’ll let you know what I need tomorrow, okay?”

 

She nodded and stood.  “Okay, Anders.  Get some rest, will you?  You look like something the cat dragged in.”

 

“Hey!  I happen to like cats,” grinned Anders.

 

She laughed and made her way out of the clinic, shaking her head.  As she stepped outside into the darkness of night, a figure emerged from the shadows to walk beside her.

 

“Thanks for waiting out here, Fenris.”

 

“Well, I highly doubt the abomination would be willing to talk to you if I was present.”

 

“Quit calling him that!  His _name_ is Anders.”

 

Fenris rolled his eyes.  “So did you discover why he’s been hiding away sulking?”

 

“I think talking to Nathaniel brought back overwhelming memories.  Apparently, he was in love with Rielle Surana.”

 

“I gathered that already from the words they exchanged.  Why did he leave her?”

 

“Justice, again.”  She sighed.  “That spirit appears to have taken everything extreme about Anders and made it worse.  I wonder what Anders was like before he allowed Justice to merge with him.”

 

“Given that he was a mage, he was probably already a problem.”

 

“Well, I’m a mage too!  Am I a problem?”  She glared at him with her hands on her hips.

 

“Of course, but you’re _my_ very beautiful problem.”  Smiling darkly, he pushed her gently against a nearby building.  Tangling his fingers in her shortened locks, he pulled her into a ferocious kiss, biting her lower lip until she moaned and sank weakly against him.  He chuckled in triumph and reaching down, picked her up in his arms and slung her over his shoulder.  She shrieked and pounded on his back while he sauntered off to Hightown, grinning.

 

“Hush now, mage.  Tonight, you’re mine, and I’m taking you home.”

 

“I can walk, you domineering elf!” she sputtered angrily.

 

His voice rang with amusement.  “Ah, but the last time we were together, you quite emphatically stated that you _liked_ me being domineering.  And this was _after_ I had tied you to the bed, I believe.”

 

She swatted his ass even as she admired it from her upside-down position.  “You are a horrible tease, Fenris.”

 

He squeezed her thighs wickedly.  “If you are a good girl and quit fighting me, I promise to be a very _good_ tease after we get home, my dear.”

 

After a few seconds followed without a sound from her, he laughed.  This would be a very _fun_ evening.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Alistair leaned against the rough stone wall that surrounded the training yard of the Palace Guard. Kylon took care of training the recruits, so Alistair rarely found the need to visit this area of the castle, but today was an exception. He had heard rumors that bets were being placed on whether any guards could win a duel against Zevran. So far, the gossip circulating around the Palace stated that no one had yet succeeded. When he overheard that another match was taking place this afternoon, he had casually strolled over to the small field to watch. Already, there was a small crowd of off-duty guards enjoying the show.

 

The large, burly man facing Zevran was twice the size of the elf.  He wielded a greatsword like an axe and took powerful but ponderous swings that Zevran dodged easily.  The guard was grunting in frustration as Zevran evaded and deflected each move with an amused smile on his face.  The Antivan wasn't even sweating or breathing hard.  Alistair marveled at the fact that Zevran was still as agile as he had been eight years ago.  The autumn day was very warm and Zevran had removed his shirt, oblivious of any injuries he might sustain in the sparring.  His bronzed skin glistened with sweat, and the tattoos that twined around his muscles danced with his smooth parries.  His long, flaxen hair hung in a messy ponytail that swung in harmony with his movements.

 

Zevran appeared to be getting bored and finally went on the offensive.  With a few quick flicks of his wrists he casually disarmed the guard, and with a swift dart forward, placed his dagger against the larger man's neck.  The guard glared at his laughing comrades and acknowledged defeat.  Reaching into his belt pouch, he withdrew three gold coins and tossed them at Zevran, who caught them neatly in mid-air.  That was when the elf noticed Alistair lurking by the wall and  Zevran grinned impudently.

 

"Ah, our King has come to observe our little game!" Zevran beckoned to him with one of his daggers.  "Would you care to take a turn challenging me, Alistair?"

 

The guards stared at Zevran, aghast at his lack of formality with the King.  Their looks of horror made Alistair grin with amusement.  Pushing himself off the wall, he strolled over to where Zevran stood.

 

"To be honest, I'm out of practice.  All these annoying responsibilities keep me from working on my skills."

 

"No matter, my friend.  We shall do away with any wagers for now and simply duel for fun." Zevran gestured at the guard he had just defeated.  "May the King borrow your sword, my good Ser?"

 

The guard gave Alistair a nervous bow and presented his greatsword.  Alistair murmured his thanks and turned to face the elf, who was grinning impishly.  He was quite certain that this match was going to be terribly embarrassing.  Unfortunately, he could hardly turn down Zevran's invitation in front of the gathered guards.

 

He barely had time to assume a defensive stance before Zevran was darting at him like a determined bee.  Alistair was not used to a two-handed weapon and his parries felt cumbersome and slow.  After a few minutes of deflecting Zevran’s stabs, he finally went on the offensive and swung several heavy blows at the assassin.  Unfortunately, Zevran was ready for him and deftly grabbed Alistair’s wrist, twisting hard.  With a surprised grunt, Alistair dropped the sword, but unwilling to concede defeat, he threw himself at the assassin’s legs.  The move caused Zevran to fall onto the grass, and the two of them tumbled across the ground.  Alistair made a grab for one of Zevran’s daggers, but the elf rolled on top of him and within seconds, Alistair had a dagger to his throat.

 

There was a hush across the field as the audience tried to decide how to react to their King’s defeat.  Zevran smiled a slow, lazy grin at his opponent, withdrawing his dagger but not moving from atop Alistair.  Alistair shook his head ruefully and in spite of himself, started to chuckle.

 

“I rarely was able to beat you during the Blight, so it shouldn’t surprise anyone that even eight years later, you can still kick my ass.”

 

His light tone relaxed the guards, and they began to applaud and whistle their appreciation.  Zevran sighed.

 

“I think that we shall have to work on your swordsmanship, my friend.  You never fell so easily before.”

 

“Like I said, being King allows me little time to practice.”

 

“Then we shall remedy that, yes?”

 

Alistair stared up at the elf and found himself wondering what those alluring tattoos on Zevran’s cheek actually _meant_.  Without thinking, he reached up to pull a twig out of Zevran’s hair, which had fallen loose from its ponytail.  His fingers brushed through the silky strands, and he absently tucked the misbehaving locks behind Zevran’s pointed ear.  His eyes slid to meet the elf’s and he flushed as he suddenly realized what he was doing and how it might appear.  For a brief moment, he saw a strange, unguarded look in those golden orbs, but it disappeared quickly as Alistair pushed Zevran off his chest and stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants.

 

“Well, now that we’ve seen just how clumsy the King has become, I better get back to my more boring duties.”  He continued flicking dust off his clothes a little longer than necessary and gave the guards an embarrassed wave before leaving the field as quickly as he could.  The guards dispersed, leaving the field to return to their duties.  Zevran stood alone, staring after Alistair curiously, his fingers unwittingly tucking his loose hair behind his ear just as Alistair had moments earlier.

 

 

It took only two days to sail across the Waking Sea from Kirkwall to Ferelden.  As they entered the delta that led to Lake Calenhad, Leliana stood at the prow of the ship gazing at the land she hadn’t seen in eight years.  The trees that lined the banks of the river were dressed in their full autumn finery:  flaming reds, earthy browns, and dazzling golds.  The breeze was cool but the warmth of summer still lingered.

 

“Autumn was always my favorite season.”  Nathaniel came to stand beside her and rested his forearms on the rail.  His dark hair was loosely pulled back in braids, but a few stray hairs blew wildly in the breeze.  “I suppose to an Orlesian, Ferelden must seem pretty rustic, but you can’t beat the feel of fall here:  the tastes of apple cider, the smell of freshly cropped hay, the sound of people laughing and dancing in the evenings after the crops have been brought in.”

 

Leliana smiled at his description.  Since boarding the ship, Nathaniel had been quiet and reclusive.  He was unfailingly polite and courteous, just as she expected a former noble would be, but he was clearly a man of few words.  When he did speak, his voice was like warm honey, smooth and rich.

 

“I was born and raised in Orlais but my mother was Ferelden.  When things went poorly for me in Orlais, I came to Lothering to join the Chantry.”  She closed her eyes at the memory.  “I remember the autumns in Lothering; they were just as you said, rustic but beautiful.”

 

“Does your mother still live in Orlais?”

 

Leliana shook her head sadly.  “She died when I was young, and the Lady Cecile raised me.  She thought I had a knack for singing, so she introduced me to the bardic craft and found me a mentor.”

 

“You are a bard as well as a Seeker?”  Nathaniel smiled.  _He should smile more often_ , thought Leliana _.  He’s too handsome to be so serious all the time_.  “You have many hidden talents, my Lady.”

 

“Please, call me Leliana.  I’ve never been one of the nobility to earn the title of Lady.”  She gave him a mischievous grin.  “I noticed you carry a fine-looking bow.  Do you have much training in archery, Commander?”

 

“If I must call you Leliana, then you must call me Nathaniel.  And yes, I’ve been told that my marksmanship is quite exceptional.”

 

“I also have some skill as an archer.  Perhaps we should have a bit of a contest when we reach land?”

 

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows at her.  “You _do_ have many talents.  I would be most delighted at the chance to measure my skills against yours, Leliana.”

 

“Consider it a tryst, then.  Unless there is a woman who might be offended if I spent time with you?”  _Maker, I hope that’s not too obvious_.

 

Nathaniel’s face turned bitter as he returned his attention to the river.  “There is no one who would consider a Howe a good marriage for their daughter.  You have no need to worry, I assure you.”

 

Leliana was distressed at his change in mood.  “I’m sorry if my question upset you.  Surely after eight years, people realize that you aren’t like your father.”

 

“People have long memories, I’m afraid.”  He straightened.  “I need to go speak to the captain about having our things brought ashore once we reach Calenhad Docks.  I enjoyed our conversation, Leliana.”  He gave her a nod and walked off down the deck.

 

She watched him leave with disappointment.  The Commander was quite intriguing and definitely more than a little pleasant to look at.  She hoped that she would have more opportunities to draw him out of his shell once they reached the Circle Tower.  _Stop it, Leliana, you’re a bride of the Maker and a Seeker.  You can’t pursue any dalliances with men._ She sighed and stared down into the water, wishing that duty wasn’t such a hard taskmaster _._

Alistair strode out to the gates of the Palace donned in the dragonscale armor Wade had made for him during the Blight.  Cailan’s old shield was slung across his back and Starfang hung at his belt.  It felt strangely wonderful to be wearing his old armor again; it reminded him of the old days when he was just a warrior fighting darkspawn _.  I’ve spent too long holed up in this castle tending to tedious duties.  It’s past time I mingled with the people again_.

 

Kylon was waiting near the gates with a small contingent of armed guards.  He was clearly anxious and not at all comfortable at seeing the King prepared to leave the Palace grounds.

 

“Sire, if I may say so, it really would be best if you stay in the Palace until we discover who is behind the assassination.”

 

Alistair sighed; they had already had this discussion.  “Kylon, I understand your concerns, but I can’t stay locked away indefinitely.  The people need to see their King and be assured that everything is fine.  I already agreed to bring some of your men with me, and Zevran will be coming as well.”

 

“ _Sì_ ,” agreed the Antivan, mysteriously appearing from the shadows of the gate.  Kylon eyed him nervously.  The elf had a disconcerting way of appearing and disappearing so quietly that Kylon sometimes imagined that Zevran was some kind of spirit.

 

The Commander of the Palace Guard sighed.  “Very well, Your Majesty.  You will be going to the Alienage?”

 

“I have received reports that there is trouble there,” Alistair said grimly.  “Shianni sent me a note to confirm this.  Apparently, a group of thugs is terrorizing the elves.  I want to investigate this myself and assure the elves that this will be dealt with.”

 

Kylon nodded and gestured to the guards standing at the gate.  “Be careful, Sire,” he said as the gates were opened.

 

The group headed out into the streets of Denerim with the guards surrounding Alistair.  Zevran walked casually behind them, his eyes carefully scanning the rooftops and alleyways.  He couldn’t blame Alistair for wanting to get out of the Palace for a while, but he wasn’t taking any chances; it had been Zevran who had insisted that Alistair take him along.  The King had been avoiding him since their duel, which definitely piqued Zevran’s curiosity.  Kylon had approached the elf and informed him that Alistair was planning to visit the Alienage.  An irritated Zevran had confronted the King and demanded to know why he hadn’t been told.

 

“I didn’t think it was anything important,” Alistair had mumbled, staring at the floor.

 

Zevran had glared at him.  “May I remind you, _Your Majesty_ , that you asked me to stay here as a bodyguard to both you and your son.  Yet, you neglect to inform me that you are planning a trip to a dangerous area of the city?  Tsk.”

 

The King had flushed and agreed that Zevran should go, which was why Zevran was now strolling behind the contingent, watching as passersby bowed to their King.  He glanced at Alistair, who was waving and greeting his subjects, even kneeling down to shake hands with admiring children.  Alistair was quite handsome in his shining armor, his blond hair almost glowing in the afternoon sun.  Zevran wondered how long Eamon was going to allow the King to remain unmarried.  His thoughts wandered back to their duel, to the way Alistair’s fingers had lingered in his hair when he plucked out the twig, and most importantly, the way Alistair had looked at him in that moment, those blue eyes going oddly _soft_.  It had been most unsettling, but he couldn’t deny that there had been a surprising warmth in his loins in response to that intense gaze.

 

They were entering the Alienage now, and Zevran quickly pushed away the distracting thoughts.  The buildings here had dramatically improved since the Blight.  He was pleased to see that the streets were clear of filth and the houses no longer looked as if they would fall down at the slightest push.  The children playing in the yards looked happy and their clothes were clean and whole.  Alistair dropped back in the group to talk to Zevran.

 

“So what do you think?  It looks much better now, doesn’t it?”

 

Zevran smiled at the pride in Alistair’s voice.  “I must admit that it’s definitely changed for the better.  You’ve done well, my friend.”

 

“It’s really due to Shianni, not me.  All I did was see that she got the money she needed to fund the repairs.  Some of the nobility were rather unhappy with my choice, but I took a firm stand on it.  After all, the upper class area of Denerim received little damage from the battle compared to the Alienage and the marketplace.”  He chuckled.  “It was almost amusing to listen to them complain that they weren’t receiving enough money to repair their gardens and fountains.”  He rolled his eyes.

 

“Aristocracy always wants more,” replied Zevran.  “It is the same everywhere.”  He gestured towards a petite, red-headed elf approaching them.  “Here comes our lovely elven Bann now.”

 

Shianni greeted Alistair enthusiastically and smiled widely when she saw Zevran.

 

“Ah, our favorite assassin has returned,” she cried as she pulled him into a hug.  “I did not think we would ever see you again.”

 

“I had not planned on returning to Ferelden, but fate had other plans for me,” said Zevran with a sidelong glance at Alistair.

 

“Zev has been kind enough to stay and help me figure out who murdered Anora,” murmured Alistair in a low voice.  “He will also provide protection for Duncan.”

 

Shianni turned sober.  “We had heard of the assassination, of course.  You have my heartfelt condolences, Alistair.  I am relieved that you and Duncan are okay.”  She flicked her gaze to Zevran.  “Have you discovered any leads?”

 

“Only a small one, I’m afraid,” lamented Zevran.  “I am certain that more will come to light soon.”

 

Alistair gestured towards Shianni’s house.  “Shall we discuss what has been troubling the alienage, Shianni?”

 

“Oh, let me show you around some more while we talk,” smiled Shianni.  “I want you to see everything that your funds have helped to pay for.”

 

The King and the Bann walked slowly toward the center of the community, where the great vhenadahl towered above the surrounding buildings.  Its leaves were a bright, cheerful yellow and provided a dappled shade from the unusually warm autumn sun.  Children were kicking a leather ball around the tree while several parents watched and chatted amongst themselves.  The guards relaxed a little and smiled down at the youngsters, tossing the ball back when it rolled their way.  Shianni was leading Alistair to the old abandoned orphanage, which was now a medical clinic staffed by two elven mages.  As he passed by the giant tree, Zevran allowed his head to fall back and he gazed up at the beauty of the shimmering golden leaves rippling in the breeze.

 

That was when he noticed a brown shape that was almost obscured by the leaves high above.  It wasn’t shaped like a branch, and it held a curved piece of wood on which lay a feathered object that _definitely_ wasn’t a bird.  Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched the archer draw his bow, the arrow clearly aimed in the direction of Alistair.  His hands started to reach for his daggers out of reflex, but there was no _time_.  Heart racing, he willed his legs to move, sprinting towards Alistair while yelling a warning.  Even as he was moving, his mind was already calculating the trajectory of the arrow and as he neared the King, he leaped into the air, twisting so that his side faced the tree.  He deliberately fell against Alistair, knocking him off his feet, and at the same time, a searing pain lanced through his shoulder as the arrow struck.  He barely heard Shianni’s scream as he fell on top of Alistair and stayed there, protecting the King from any further attack.

 

Moments passed as he heard the guards yelling, and he felt Alistair’s rapid heartbeats against his chest.

 

“Zev?  Maker, Zev, you’re hurt.”  Alistair tried to squirm out from under the elf, but Zevran pinned him down with a grunt.  “Zev, they killed him.  The archer is dead; let me up.”  Zevran relaxed and Alistair rolled over and hunched over the smaller man with a worried expression.  The guards ran over and started inspecting Alistair for injuries but he shrugged them off.  “I’m fine.  See to Zevran, please.”  Shianni ran to the clinic and yelled for a healer, while Zevran rolled to his back and waved the anxious guards off.

 

“Tsk, so much fuss over a shoulder injury?  Any healer can fix this easily.”  Shianni returned, followed by an elf dressed in mage robes.  The mage knelt down and inspected the wound carefully.

 

“This doesn’t look too bad,” he said.  “We only need to pull the arrow straight out and then cleanse the wound.”

 

A wave of dizziness followed by nausea swept through Zevran.  The arm containing the arrow was becoming suspiciously numb.  Remaining calm, he looked intently up at the healer.

 

“I suspect that the arrow may be poisoned.  Would you be so good as to remove the arrow right now and let me inspect it?”  Alistair gasped and the mage looked alarmed.

 

“Don’t you want me to give you something for the pain first?”

 

Sweat began to bead on Zevran’s brow.  “There is no time, my good mage.  Please, take it out swiftly.”

 

The mage asked Shianni to get some bandages from the clinic and turned back to Zevran with a grim face.  “This isn’t the most sanitary place to remove an arrow, but if you insist…”  He gripped the shaft tightly and muttering something under his breath, pulled back sharply.

 

Zevran hissed with the pain, but didn’t flinch.  He took the arrow from the mage and held it carefully by the fletching.  The tip was covered with his blood but he saw nothing unusual.  Lowering the tip to his nose, he inhaled slowly.  “ _Mierda_ ,” he murmured softly, closing his eyes.

 

“Zev?  What is it?  Poison?”  Alistair’s voice was strained, almost bordering on panic.

 

“ _Sì, mi amigo_ ,” replied Zevran.  He was starting to feel very hot and sweaty.  “It is called _Beso del Sol_ in Antiva, ‘kiss of the sun’.  It is a common poison used by Crows, and one that we immunize ourselves against.  There is no antidote, unfortunately.”  He handed the arrow back to the mage who handled it fearfully.

 

Alistair let out a sigh of relief.  “So it won’t kill you?”

 

“Death is highly unlikely, but it will give me a very… bad… night, I think.”  Zevran gripped Alistair’s arm with his good hand.  “Please, take me back to my room at the Palace.  If I’m going to endure this, I would rather it be in a bed than in the dirt.”  He forced a shaky smile.  The numbness was moving into his legs and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to walk.

 

The guards and elves swiftly made a litter and placed Zevran inside.  The healer quickly cleansed and bandaged the wound, giving Alistair instructions on how to keep it clean.  Alistair hovered at Zevran’s side as they traveled back to the Palace.  He watched the elf with increasing anxiety as the Antivan’s face began to pale beneath his tan.  By the time they reached the Palace, Zevran had begun to periodically jerk and convulse with pain.  Kylon met them at the gate, already alerted to the attack by a messenger.  Alistair instructed him to get the Palace healer and followed the litter to Zevran’s room.  By the time the elf was laid in his bed, the healer was already at the bedside.  When Alistair told the healer the name of the poison, the man’s face grew somber.

 

“I have heard of this, although I have never seen its effects before.  It is said that the Crows take small doses of the poison as part of their training to prevent death if they should be attacked with it.  Even though it won’t kill someone immunized as such, it will result in a prolonged period of suffering.”

 

“Such as?” asked Alistair.

 

“The first day is the worst.  He will experience high fevers and delirium accompanied by severe pain.  Supposedly, it feels like your skin is on fire.  After some hours, which vary depending on the amount of poison the victim is exposed to, the pain will abate but will leave the victim weak for a few days.  I can’t… guarantee that he’ll survive this, you understand.  But since he’s a Crow, his chances are good.”  He looked at Alistair apologetically.  “I’m sorry, but there is little I can do to make this any easier for him.  I will, however, stay here and do what I can to make him as comfortable as possible.”

 

Alistair stared down at Zevran, who was now covered with sweat and gripping the bed sheets in pain.  He shook his head.

 

“That won’t be necessary.  I’ll stay here and watch over him myself.  Just stay nearby in case I need you.”

 

“Very well, Sire.  I will send a servant with some rags and cold water.  It might help with his fever.”  Alistair nodded and waved him away absently.  Bending over the elf, he removed Zevran’s shirt and trousers, both of which were already soaked with sweat.  The servant brought the cloths and a basin of water, then left discreetly.  Alistair pulled a chair beside the bed and began to clean the sweat off Zevran’s skin.  The elf opened his eyes to look at him.  The usually golden orbs were clouded with pain.

 

“Alistair, you should go rest.  I will be fine; I assure you, _mi amigo_.”

 

“Damn it Zev, you just saved my life.  Staying with you is the least I can do.  Besides, I want to, okay?”

 

Zevran closed his eyes as another convulsion wracked his body.  Immediately, he felt the cool cloth stroking his forehead, and it felt wonderful against his burning skin.

 

“I… suppose… it must be quite enticing… to spend your night admiring my body, although this isn’t… quite… how I envisioned it,” he joked weakly.

 

Alistair sighed and shook his head.  “Less flirting and more resting, please.”  As the Antivan jerked in another bout of pain, Alistair whispered, “And don’t die, you crazy elf.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

It was indeed a very long night.  Fortunately, Alistair was accustomed to caring for the sick.  Anora was notoriously intolerant of illness, so Alistair had always been the parent to care for their son when Duncan became sick.  He sat by Zevran’s bed, soothing the elf’s hot skin with a cool rag.  Between bouts of pain, he would cradle Zevran’s head and coax him to drink a few swallows of cool water to ease the elf’s parched throat.  After the first two hours, Zevran became delirious and began to mumble broken phrases in Antivan of which Alistair understood nothing. 

 

He had seen Zevran nude before; there was little privacy when traveling in the wilderness for two years.  This was the first time, however, that he really _noticed_ the assassin’s body, now wearing only his smallclothes.  The dark lines of his tattoos trailed down his torso in a sinuous path that followed the hard edges of his muscles.  They disappeared beneath the smallclothes and reappeared, swirling around his hips and down over his thighs, where they ended at his knees.  The elf was thin compared to Alistair’s bulkiness, but he was all lean muscle and tough sinew.  Alistair found himself unconsciously tracing the tattoos with the moist rag, admiring the meticulous detail. 

 

Strangely, Zevran’s hair fascinated him the most.  As the elf tossed and turned, lost in his pain, his braids became tangled.  Alistair undid them, allowing Zevran’s hair to fan out on the sweat-soaked pillow.  The long, golden strands were silky and soft, and he couldn’t resist running his fingers through them.  It reminded him of the nights he had spent with Rielle, how in the midst of their passion he would bury his hands in her rich, dark locks.  The memory brought a sharp pain to his heart, a thorn still buried deep within his soul.

 

 _She_ had not come once in the eight years that followed his coronation.  All of his friends had left one by one, leaving him alone with a wife who despised everything he was and a seneschal who was never satisfied with anything he did.  After the assassination, he had been so sure that _she_ would return and at least offer him some compassion.  How completely naïve he had been to think this, to believe that some flicker of the flame they once shared would still be burning.

 

What an odd turn of events that it would be _Zevran_ who returned in his time of need.  They had been rivals for Rielle’s affection, and the assassin had never wasted an opportunity to ridicule Alistair’s bashful attempts to romance her.  For his part, Alistair had despised Zevran’s wanton mannerisms and flippant jokes.  Only towards the end had they both gained a measure of respect for each other, Alistair finally realizing that the assassin hid his true self beneath his carefree demeanor.  Furthermore, Zevran had been gracious when Rielle had chosen Alistair, withdrawing his flirtations from her and turning his attentions to other women.

 

Zevran curled into a fetal ball, moaning softly and clenching his fists in the bed sheets.  For some reason, it _hurt_ to see the assassin like this.  Zevran had always been stoic in the face of pain, often joking while his wounds were cleansed.  The pain had to be awful for the Antivan to be reduced to such a state.  Alistair gently wiped the beads of sweat from Zevran’s brow for the hundredth time and wished he could understand what the elf was saying, not that it would have made any sense.  Sometimes he caught Rielle’s name as well as his own in the meaningless babble.

 

As the dawn spread its first rosy flush across the sky, Zevran finally began to improve.  His fever broke and his moans ceased, much to Alistair’s relief.  Too weary to climb the stairs to his own room, he stripped down to his trousers and climbed into Zevran’s bed, lying down next to the elf.  Zevran continued to twitch with lingering pain, so Alistair reached out and stroked his flaxen hair gently.  Surprisingly, this seemed to soothe Zevran, and he relaxed, finally drifting into sleep.  Alistair soon followed, his fingers still entwined in the satin strands of Zevran’s hair.

 

 

Orsino blazed down the main hall of the Templar Headquarters with all the fire of a dragon, robes billowing behind him like gray smoke.  He ignored the nervous stares of the templars he passed, and when the guard outside the Knight Commander’s door moved to intercept him, Orsino gave him an icy glare that froze the templar in mid-step.  Disdaining the courtesy of a knock, Orsino slammed the wooden door open and entered the office in a tempest of fury.

 

His adversary whirled away from the window she was facing, hastily sheathing a glowing, red sword.  Its blade resembled no metal he had ever seen, and before Meredith hid it from view, he could see her reflection disturbingly distorted in the rippling surface.  Before he could think to ask about it, she placed the sword on her desk and moved to stand directly before him.  Narrowing her eyes to icy slivers, she returned his fiery expression with a frigid smile.

 

“Why, Orsino!  How lovely of you to pay me a surprise visit.  Is there something I can do to help you?”

 

The First Enchanter clenched his fists.  “As if you didn’t know!” he spat.  “Where are Werthinn and Embrial?”

 

“Ah, the blood mages we apprehended today?  They have been sent to assist our weaponsmith with the enchantment of swords for the templars… after they were made Tranquil, of course.”

 

Orsino reached for his staff, stopping his hands just short of touching the carved dragon heads.  He bared his teeth in a snarl, and Meredith stretched one hand behind her to rest on her sword.

 

“May I remind you, First Enchanter, that any aggressive action you perform here will reflect quite badly on your precious Circle?  Surely you don’t wish for me to impose more restrictions on your people?”

 

Orsino took a shuddering breath and lowered his hands to his sides.  “We are already prisoners, Meredith.  You lock us in cells while we wait to be executed!”

 

Meredith raised her eyebrows.  “Executed?  Hardly, Orsino.  The Rite of Tranquility does not include death.”

 

“You steal our souls!  All that is left of the Tranquil are the empty shells of their bodies!”

 

“I don’t need to remind you that blood magic is strictly forbidden.  Those magi sealed their own fate, not me.”

 

Orsino thrust out his hand, palm up.  “Show me proof!”

 

The Knight Commander crossed her arms over her chest.  “I need show you nothing, Orsino.  I can see it everywhere among your magi.  All of you put on masks of innocence while you secretly plot against humanity!  If you think I will allow Kirkwall to fall into evil, you are sorely mistaken.”

 

“If you think I will allow you to carry on your crusade of madness, _you_ are sorely mistaken, Meredith.  This will stop.  If I must bring my plea to the Chantry, I will do it.”

 

Meredith threw back her head and laughed.  “The Chantry?  My dear Orsino, who do you think gives the templars their Maker-given rights?  Surely, you don’t believe that the Grand Cleric will support a Circle riddled with blood magic?”

 

“Neither will she support the whole-scale murder of every mage in Kirkwall!”  Orsino turned to the door and flung it open, casting a last venomous glance at Meredith.  “Do not think I will cower in fear while you pursue your odious massacre, Meredith.  For now, the sun shines bright on the blood-stained swords of the templars, but your night will come and the stars will blaze with the fire of the righteous!”

 

She took a step toward him in anger, but he was gone in a smoldering flash of gray.  She slammed her door shut and stalked to her desk, unsheathing the sword.  Her mind calmed as she stared into the shimmering crimson of the blade, its song weaving its soothing tendrils into her mind.  _He cannot prevail over us, my friend,_ she thought _.  Our strength shall be his ruin, and his Circle shall crumble into ash at our feet_.  _The magi will kneel at the foot of the Maker and Andraste shall give us the power to end their evil forever_.  She smiled as the ice in her eyes glinted faintly with the red of blood.

 

 

Every muscle ached as if he had spent the entire day running, and a hammer kept pounding inside his head.  It didn’t help that when he opened his eyes, the sun lit the room with blinding light.  Zevran gritted his teeth and surveyed the small room warily.  It seemed that he had survived the worst of the poison, thanks to the Crow practice of building immunity to toxic substances.  As his senses woke, he became aware that someone was lying behind him on the bed, breathing softly.

 

Bemused, he gingerly turned over to find Alistair asleep on his back, one arm flung across his eyes.  Few things had the ability to surprise Zevran anymore but finding himself in the same bed as Alistair definitely startled him.  He had to repress the ridiculous urge to laugh, and instead took the moment to study the half-clothed man next to him.  For all his claims that he was out of shape, Alistair had changed little since the Blight.  His arms were still lined with hard muscles, and his broad chest was brawny and covered with fine blond hair.  His handsome face was softened in sleep, full lips parted slightly.

 

Unaware that he was being scrutinized, Alistair stirred and stretched languorously.  He rubbed his forehead tiredly and opened his eyes to find Zevran watching him with obvious amusement.  With a sigh, he resigned himself to the inevitable.

 

“Go ahead, say it.”

 

Zevran raised his eyebrows, all innocence.  “Say what?”

 

Alistair narrowed his eyes.  “As if _you_ would pass up the chance to make some kind of snide remark about this.”

 

“Well, I must say that eight years is a long time to wait for this moment, and I truly regret my inability to remember the fantastic night we must have had.”  Zevran let his gaze drift down to Alistair’s trousers.  “I hope I performed superbly for you.”

 

Alistair groaned and rolled out of bed.  “Well, I’m glad to see that you’re clearly feeling much better.”  He went over to the table next to the fireplace and poured a cup of water from the pitcher.  Sitting back down on the bed, he handed it to Zevran, who was trying to sit up.  He frowned with concern when the elf’s hand trembled slightly, forcing Zevran to hold the cup between both palms to steady it.

 

“Zev, you okay?”

 

Zevran took a sip and then lowered the cup to his lap.  “Unfortunately, I shall probably be weak for a few days, but do not worry, my friend.  I shall recover soon and resume my duties.  It appears that you are still attracting dangerous assassins, and this cannot be allowed to continue.”

 

“I haven’t checked to see who the attacker was yet.  I’ll go talk to Kylon now.”  Alistair looked down at the bed sheets, shifting uncomfortably.  “You saved my life, Zev.  I do appreciate… I mean… what you did…”  He sighed in frustration.  “Just… thank you.”  He risked a furtive glance at Zevran.

 

“It is my responsibility to protect you, Alistair.  It’s why you asked me to stay, is it not?”

 

“There’s a difference between taking an arrow for me and providing protection, Zev.”

 

“You are still alive and that is what matters, Alistair, but your… thanks is appreciated.”

 

Alistair stood and headed for the door.  “I’m going to get a servant to draw you a hot bath and get you some food.  Try to get some rest, and don’t go flirting with the servants.”  Zevran simply smiled in response and Alistair left, shaking his head.

 

He spotted a servant in the hallway and asked her to take care of Zevran, and then retired to his room, where he bathed and dressed.  As he was leaving his room, Commander Kylon hurried down the hall towards him, an anxious look on his face.

 

“Your Majesty, are you and the elf all right?”

 

“Yes, Kylon.  Have you discovered who the assassin was?”

 

The man ran his hand through his hair, his face grim.  “Another Crow, Sire.  I don’t understand what’s going on here…”

 

“Neither do I, but I think it’s time we found out.”

 

“Also, Sire, I need to inform you that Seneschal Eamon has returned, and his brother has accompanied him.”

 

Alistair’s face lit up.  “Teagan is here?  Excellent news, Kylon.  Where are they?”

 

“They are in the library, Sire.”

 

“Thanks, Kylon.  We’ll talk more later.”  Alistair hurried to the library, his heart already lighter than it had been for some time.  As he entered the circular room reserved for the Palace’s ancient tomes, Eamon and Teagan rose from their chairs to greet him, the latter man grabbing him in a hug.

 

“Alistair!  Maker be praised; we heard about the attack.”

 

Alistair returned the embrace.  “All is well, Teagan, and I’m glad to see you.  How is the wife?”

 

Teagan and Eamon resumed their seats, and Alistair sat across from them.

 

“She is fine,” replied Teagan.  “It sounds like there’s much more excitement here.”  His face sobered, and he lay one hand on Alistair’s arm.  “I’m so sorry about Anora, Alistair.”

 

Alistair nodded.  “Thanks.  It’s been rough for Duncan, but we are doing okay.”

 

Eamon cleared his throat.  “Kylon tells me your bodyguard saved your life yesterday, Alistair.  To whom is he referring?”

 

“Zevran has returned, Eamon.  I asked him to stay and provide protection for both Duncan and myself.”

 

Eamon frowned.  “Alistair, need I remind you that the elf is a Crow?  Your assassins have been Crows!”

 

Alistair stiffened.  “Zevran is not trying to kill me, Eamon.  In fact, he brought me the best lead we’ve had so far.  He discovered that an Orlesian bard hired the assassin who killed Anora.”

 

“Indeed?” asked Teagan.  “That doesn’t sound good.”

 

“So there’s a chance the Empress is behind this,” said Eamon.  “Perhaps she hopes to reclaim Ferelden?”

 

“We have no proof yet that Celine is involved,” said Alistair.  “We need more information.  Zevran will help us when he has recovered.”

 

“Is he okay?” asked Teagan.  “I heard the arrow he took was poisoned.”

 

“He had a bad night, but he will be fine.  I’ll go now to ask the healer to check on him.”  Alistair stood.  “Teagan, I’m glad you’re here.  Shall we talk more at dinner?”

 

“Of course,” replied Teagan with a smile.

 

Alistair found the Palace’s mage in her room, and she assured Alistair that she would examine Zevran shortly.  The King headed back to Zevran’s room and entered without knocking.  Immediately, he backpedaled toward the door, flushing as he quickly averted his gaze.  The elf was stepping out of the bath, toweling his hair dry and giving Alistair an eyeful of exquisitely tattooed skin.  Zevran raised one eyebrow at him.

 

“Alistair, we traveled together for two years during the Blight.  Surely my body holds no surprises for you any longer.”  He began to move slowly towards Alistair, rubbing the towel over his arms.

 

Alistair continued staring at the floor.  “It doesn’t… but…”  _Damn it, what in Andraste’s name is the matter with me?  This is only_ Zevran _._ He backed up against the door, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.  Zevran came to a stop barely a foot away, dropping the towel on the floor.  He reached out to grasp Alistair’s chin and turned it, forcing Alistair to meet his gaze _._

 _“_ My memories of last night are fairly hazy, but I do recall certain moments of lucidity.  In the midst of the pain, someone sat by my bed offering what comfort they could.  Perhaps you would know who this person was so that I may properly thank him?”

 

“Perhaps… I can pass on the message?”  The strain of keeping his eyes on Zevran’s and not allowing himself to look _down_ was proving to be difficult.  He prayed that Zevran couldn’t hear his heart slamming against his ribs.

 

“Hmm.  Yes, please do that.”  As he removed his hand from Alistair’s chin, he allowed one finger to graze Alistair’s cheek in a soft caress.  His ears didn’t miss the slight hitch in the other man’s breath.  _Well,_ this _is unexpected… and interesting_.  He politely backed away, giving Alistair some space to recover his composure.

 

“Uh… I just came to let you know that the healer will be here shortly to make sure you’re okay.”

 

“Ah, then I’ll be sure to dress myself properly before her arrival.”  Zevran moved calmly to the bed where some fresh clothes had been laid out.

 

“Eamon has returned, and Teagan is with him.  You’re welcome to join us for dinner, if you feel up to it.”

 

“I am feeling rather weak still, but perhaps I shall come.  I’m sure Eamon will be _most_ delighted to see me again,” Zevran smirked.

 

Feeling calm again, Alistair laughed.  “Yes, I’m sure he will.”  He left, closing the door behind him.  Zevran stared after him thoughtfully for several moments before continuing to dress.  Alistair’s reaction to the elf’s nudeness both intrigued and unsettled him.  He couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was going on inside Alistair’s head.

 

 

 

Leliana looked up at the towering spires of Kinloch Hold, otherwise known as the Circle Tower.  The last time she had been here, the fortress had been besieged from within by abominations and blood magi.  She shivered as she entered the gates and rubbed her arms vigorously.

 

“Cold?”  Nathaniel looked at her with concern.

 

“No, it’s just the memories of this place…”

 

Before he could reply, a tall mage with hair pulled severely into a bun approached, followed by a templar wearing full armor.  The mage smiled at Leliana warmly.

 

“It is good to see you again, Leliana.  It has been many years, but your aid in our time of trouble hasn’t been forgotten.”  She gave Nathaniel a courteous nod.  “Warden Commander, welcome to the Circle Tower.  My name is Petra.”

 

The templar stepped up next to Petra.  “My Lady, Warden Commander, I am Lutherain, the new Knight Commander of Ferelden.”  His voice revealed an Orlesian accent.

 

“Where is Greagoir?” asked Leliana.

 

“I regret to inform you that he has retired his position.”  His eyes swept over them.  “May I inquire as to your business here?”

 

Petra frowned in annoyance.  “I would imagine that they are here to see the First Enchanter.  They are both friends of hers.”

 

The Knight Commander shot her an angry glance.  Leliana had the impression that perhaps all was not well between the mage and the new Knight Commander.  “All visitors must check in with me when they arrive, Petra.”  He turned back to the visitors.  “Do you wish to see the First Enchanter then?”

 

“Please,” replied Leliana respectfully.

 

“Very well.  Follow me, please.”

 

“There is a dwarf with us; he is with our things back in the boat,” said Nathaniel.  “Would it be too much to ask that someone assist him with our belongings and give him a room?  We have been traveling for a long time.”

 

“It will be done,” replied Lutherain curtly.  “Come with me.”

 

As they walked through the circular stone hallway, Leliana glanced curiously at the Knight Commander.

 

“You are from Orlais, Ser?”

 

Lutherain nodded.  “I was sent by the Divine herself to replace Greagoir.”

 

“And how do you like it here?”

 

“Ferelden is quite a heathen country, but I will do my best to amend that.”

 

From behind Lutherain’s back, Nathaniel rolled his eyes at Leliana, and she suppressed a giggle.  They came to an abrupt stop at an ornately engraved oaken door, and Lutherain gave a perfunctory knock.  Without waiting for a response, he entered, and the other two followed.

 

Rielle Surana was sitting behind a small pinewood desk, and she appeared none too pleased to see Lutherain.  Her annoyed expression changed when she saw Leliana and Nathaniel, and she hurried over to give both of them joyful hugs.

 

“Nate!  Leliana!  Maker, it is so good to see you!”  Nathaniel flushed a deep red as she kissed him the cheek.

 

“Please, sit down!”  Rielle gestured to two chairs in front of her desk.  Lutherain continued to stand by the door, arms crossed.  Rielle gave him a hard look.

 

“If you please, Knight Commander, I would like to visit with my friends privately.”

 

The templar hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave them alone, but finally left with a nod toward Nathaniel and Leliana.  Rielle breathed a sigh of relief.

 

“That man will bring this Circle nothing but trouble, I’m afraid.”  She turned back to them.  “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is that you’re here.  Since Greagoir left, things have been tense.”

 

Leliana glanced at the door, and Rielle shook her head.  “Don’t worry; he can’t overhear us.  That door was enchanted long ago by a prior First Enchanter to discourage eavesdropping.”  She laughed.  “No doubt, we’ve all had our problems with Knight Commanders.”

 

“Are you well, Rielle?” asked Nathaniel.  “You look tired.”

 

She sighed.  “I spend most of my time trying to keep the peace here.  Lutherain has managed to get the templars riled up with his assertions that magi can’t be trusted.  It is frustrating because before he came, things were going so well.”  She shook her head.  “You don’t need to hear about the Circle’s problems.  Is there a reason why you’re here, or did you just happen to be in the area?  I didn’t even know you were back in Ferelden, Leli.”

 

Leliana explained about her position as Seeker and the mission she had been sent on.  Rielle was very interested in the state of Kirkwall’s Circle.

 

“May I ask what you said in your report to the Divine?”

 

“I told her the truth:  that the situation cannot continue as it is.  Relations between the templars and magi will move beyond repair if things keep escalating.  I recommended that Meredith be reassigned.”

 

“I could wish that Lutherain be reassigned as well,” said Rielle.  “I’m worried that the enmity in Kirkwall may be repeated here, and I’m determined to avoid that.”  She looked at Nathaniel.  “And what brought you to Leliana, Nate?”

 

Nathaniel gave her a brief summary about his investigation in the Deep Roads.  “The pure lyrium concerns me, especially if it falls into the wrong hands,” he said.  “Now that the location is known, others may venture there.”

 

Rielle looked thoughtful.  “A lyrium so powerful that it affects people’s minds without even being touched?  This is indeed a curious thing.  It sounds like something we should discuss with Dagna.”

 

Leliana smiled.  “The young dwarf from Orzammar is still here?”

 

“Yes, and believe it or not, she’s become quite an expert on lyrium and the history of magic.”  Rielle chuckled.  “I’ll soon have to make her a professor.”  She stood up.  “Oh, I’m so glad that you’re both here!  How about you go freshen up in your rooms, and we talk more over dinner?”  She opened her door and called out to a passing apprentice.  “Frieda will show you to our guest rooms.  Will an hour be sufficient time to settle in?”

 

“Perfect,” said Leliana.  “I must confess that I’m starved!”  She made to follow the apprentice, but Nathaniel lingered.

 

“Rielle, may I speak to you for just a moment?”

 

Leliana giggled.  “No problem; you two catch up, and I’ll see you later!”  She walked off with Frieda, and Nathaniel pulled Rielle back into her office.

 

“What is it, Nate?”

 

Nathaniel looked down at the floor and sighed.  “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but you have every right to know.”  He looked her directly in the eye.  “I’ve found Anders, Rielle.”


	10. Chapter 10

Rielle grabbed the edge of her desk as her face paled to a sickly gray.

 

"Anders?  You saw him?"

 

Nathaniel nodded slowly and reached out to steady her, a look of concern on his face.  "He helped the Champion rescue me from the Dark Roads.  He's living in Kirkwall now _._ ”

 

Rielle fumbled for words while her mind reeled.  "Kirkwall?  But that place is terrible for magi!  The templars there are ridiculously strict…"  _Oh, Anders, what are you doing_?

 

"I think that's why he's there," said Nathaniel.  "He runs a free medical clinic in the slums and gives aid to Ferelden refugees.  The Champion told me he also campaigns for the magi’s freedom."

 

"Yes, that sounds like Anders."  Rielle closed her eyes as her face twisted in pain.  "Was he well?"

 

  

  1. "He allowed Justice to merge with him, Rielle."
  



 

Her eyes flew open.  "What?  How?" 

 

"I really don't understand the specifics, but they both share Anders’ body.  He's... changed.  His humor and his carefree attitude are gone.  It's still Anders, but he's so... intense, so serious."  _So angry…_

 

"And this Champion?  He is with her now?"  Her voice trembled, and she couldn’t meet his gaze.

 

"No, I don't think so.  She seemed to have some sort of relationship with a Tevinter elf.  I don’t think he’s with anyone."

 

"I see."  She turned to stare out the window at the last rays of the sun shimmering in the lake.  "Thank you for telling me."

 

Nathaniel gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.  "If I can do anything, Rielle, please let me know."  He had watched this woman fight against darkspawn, stand up to demanding nobles, and destroy the Mother.  It was hard to see her as she was now, desolate and frail.

 

She reached up and patted his hand as if _he_ was the one in need of comfort.  "I will be fine, Nate.  Go freshen up and then we can talk of your adventure over some good food."  She waited until she heard the door click shut before she allowed the first sob to break free from her throat.

 

 

 

The Amell library was small by upper class standards, but the cheerful fireplace and plush chairs gave it a cozy atmosphere.  The acrid odor of dry parchment permeated the room, tempered by the faint, musty smell of ale drifting down from the barrels set in an alcove upstairs.  Lia waited comfortably in a velvet, burgundy armchair by the hearth while Bodahn brought in her unexpected guest.  She gave her visitor a respectful nod and gestured to a chair facing hers.  He returned her nod with an anxious smile and perched on the edge of the chair.

 

"Welcome, First Enchanter.  Would you like a glass of wine or a mug of ale?"  Lia beckoned to Bodahn.

 

"That is most kind of you, Serah Hawke.  A glass of wine would be excellent."

 

"Bodahn, two glasses of red wine, please."  The stout dwarf bowed and disappeared.  Lia assessed Orsino curiously.  She had met him before, but this was the first time he had come to her home.  His face was smooth and ageless in the manner of all elves, but the strain showed in the lines around his mouth, and his eyes were dulled with worry.

 

"Is there something I can help you with?"

 

"Serah Hawke, please believe me when I say that I wouldn't impose on you if the situation weren't so desperate.  Things simply cannot continue as they are."  His hands twitched in agitation.

 

"I assume you mean the ongoing tension between the templars and the magi."

 

"It has grown far beyond tensions, I'm afraid.  You have been fortunate to escape the clutches of the templars; however, your brothers and sisters in the Circle face a grim future."

 

Lia winced.  She was very much aware that her status as Champion gave her more protection than any mage in Kirkwall.  "What is happening to upset you so much, First Enchanter?"

 

"Few magi are allowed to leave the Gallows now, and those who do must have permission directly from Meredith.  Every mage is subject to being searched at any time, even in the middle of the night.  Accusations of blood magic are made daily and these magi are removed for interrogation.  They are never seen again."  Orsino lowered his head into his hands.

 

Lia bit her lip.  "And what does Meredith say to all of this?"

 

"She claims to have evidence, but she refuses to provide it."  Orsino raised his head, and Lia was shocked to see tears.  "Forgive me for being so emotional, Serah Hawke, but I am responsible for every mage in Kirkwall, and I am powerless to save them!  There are those who encourage me to take more... aggressive measures, but I wish to avoid outright war.  However, as time passes and more of my people disappear, how can I continue to stand by and do nothing?"

 

His words shook her heart.  Orsino's frustration echoed that of Anders and resonated in her soul.  She could not remain hidden behind her name and ignore the suffering of the Circle.

 

Before she could respond, Bodahn entered with their drinks and left with a short bow.  Orsino wiped his face with his sleeve and drained the goblet in a single desperate gulp.  Troubled, Lia sipped her wine while she watched Orsino twirl the stem of his empty glass.

 

“Did you know that I’m the youngest mage ever to become First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle?”  Orsino barked out a derisive laugh.  “Some achievement _that_ turned out to be.  You want to know why I really got the position?”  He stood abruptly and moved to stand in front of the fire.  The flames flickered over his face, deepening the shadows under his emerald eyes.  “No one else would take it, which isn’t surprising considering that Meredith had assumed command of the templars only a year prior to the previous First Enchanter’s death.  Some say he died from despair.”

 

“So the position fell to you?”

 

“I didn’t want it, but I was still young enough to believe that there was hope for peace.  I thought that surely, if I reasoned with Meredith and made a real effort to address her concerns, the situation would improve.”  He shook his head.  “I was so naïve.”

 

“Perhaps it’s not too late.”

 

He sighed and turned to face her.  “That’s what I kept telling myself year after year, Serah Hawke; but things have only worsened recently.  Meredith has become… obsessed with ridding Kirkwall of magi.”  When Lia opened her mouth to protest, he waved at her dismissively.  “Oh, she won’t actually say that she wishes to remove _all_ of them, but the sentiment is there, believe me.”

 

“First Enchanter, I grew up as an apostate, but that does not mean that I feel nothing for the magi of the Circle.  Tell me what I can do.”

 

“It is why I am here, Serah Hawke.  Meredith is hardly unaware of your influence, and I feel certain that it is only a matter of time before she approaches you to assess whether she can use you as an ally.”

 

“But I’m a mage, one of those she hates…”

 

“…which makes you invaluable.  If even the Champion of Kirkwall, an apostate, condemns the Circle for the use of blood magic, then why would anyone else in Kirkwall dispute it?  She can deal with you later after the Circle falls under her sword.”

 

“And if I become your ally?  What would you have me do?”

 

“For now?  Nothing.  But the day is surely coming when the templars will draw their weapons and the magi will draw their staves.  We may need you then, Serah Hawke.  Can I count on your support?”

 

Lia stood and laid a hand on his arm.  “My staff will fight beside yours, First Enchanter.  I will not allow Meredith to destroy the Circle.”

 

Orsino grabbed her hand and pressed it to his lips.  “You have brought some ease to my mind, Serah.  I am grateful beyond words for your support.  If my humble position may provide you with any assistance, please do not hesitate to let me know.  I trust you know where my office is?”

 

“I do, although I doubt it provides you with much privacy, given that it sits across the hall from Meredith.”  Lia grinned as Orsino chuckled softly.

 

“Indeed, I am sure that the two of us spend most of our days glaring through our closed doors at each other!”  Orsino gave her a courteous bow.  “I must attend to some errands before Meredith starts to wonder where I am.  Thank you for your time, Serah Hawke.”  He turned to leave and then hesitated.  “By the way, I believe the apostate who runs a clinic in Darktown is a friend of yours?”  Lia nodded.  “Find him another home, Serah.  He has escaped Meredith’s attention thus far, but her eye has searched him out at last.  I would suggest that he stay here if possible.  Meredith does not yet have the power to challenge the Champion.”

 

“Thank you, First Enchanter.  I will take care of him.”  She watched him leave, the dragon heads of his staff lending an ominous air to his exit.

 

“So you will side with the magi when the time comes.” The voice like smooth, dark chocolate floated down from upstairs.

 

Lia turned to face Fenris as he descended with a scowl.  “What would you have me do?  Fight alongside a fanatic bent on destroying every man, woman, and child who has the ability to cast a spell?  Even Cullen admitted that Meredith is becoming crazed in her accusations; you heard him.”

 

“Perhaps her charge is not unwarranted.  Desperate magi are known to turn to blood magic to save themselves.”

 

“You heard Orsino; she doesn’t provide any proof!  If she is truly righteous, why isn’t she showing Kirkwall the evidence against the magi?”

 

Fenris held up a hand.  “All I’m saying is that she deserves a fair hearing.”

 

“If she wishes to see me, then I will listen.  She better have some proof ready, however.”  She sighed and went to stand before him, reaching out to stroke his cheek.  “I know how you feel about magi, Fenris.  Let’s not repeat this argument.”

 

“At least tell me you won’t be allowing Anders to stay here.  He is trouble, Hawke.”

 

“Yes, I am going to invite him to stay in the guest room.”  Fenris narrowed his eyes, and she placed her fingers against his lips.  “He’s my friend; surely you don’t suggest that we leave him to the mercy of the templars!”

 

She could hear him grinding his teeth in frustration.  “Fine, let the man stay, but if he so much as touches you…”  The lines of lyrium glowed faintly.

 

She grabbed both sides of his head between her hands, pulling his face to hers.  “There is only one person who can touch me in a way that makes me ache, and that person is an elf with the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen.”

 

“You mean Orsino?”

 

“Dirty rotten bastard,” she growled as she yanked him closer and nipped at his lower lip.

 

 

The woman who entered The Blooming Rose in Kirkwall’s Red Lantern district attracted little attention from the scantily dressed elves and humans searching for clients.  She had appeared here before and words had been exchanged with Madame Lusine.  Coin changed hands, and all employees were given strict instructions to ignore the woman on future visits.  The whores needed no further incentive; anyone who could afford to pay off Madame Lusine for silence was someone who should not be crossed.

 

She wore a simple gown of unassuming ochre, covered by an earthy, brown cloak.  To the untrained eye, she appeared quite harmless, but the man seated at the back corner table saw the subtle outlines of two daggers beneath the shifting fabric.  The hood of her cloak concealed her face, but wisps of raven hair escaped the confining cover.  She walked directly to the table where the man waited and gave him a quick nod.  He gestured casually to the chair across the table from him.  The woman hesitated, glancing warily around the large room.

 

“I have already been here for two hours, and I can assure you that this location is safe at the moment.”  The man was bald and slightly overweight, and his face was quite plain.  His eyes glinted with shrewdness, however, and the woman knew that he most likely had more than one weapon concealed on his person.  She sat down in the offered chair and pushed back the hood of her cloak.  Beautifully braided, midnight hair was gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck, and her eyes were a soft shade of honey.  Her skin was flawless and pale, and her lips were painted a deep ruby.

 

“I am honored by your presence, Master Ignacio.”  The lilt of her voice held the cultured accent of Orlais.  “I had not expected that my contract would attract the attention of a cell as prominent as your own.”

 

“The Guild has failed to honor your contract twice.  Such… incompetence is unseemly in our line of business.”  Ignacio pushed a glass of burgundy wine across the table.  “I have taken the liberty of ordering you a rare vintage of Orlesian wine.”

 

The woman raised the goblet to her lips and sipped it with pleasure.  “It is quite excellent, Master Ignacio.  I thank you for your generosity.  It is a comforting reminder of home.”

 

“You have traveled quite a distance to Kirkwall, my Lady.  This is the third time you have arranged a meeting here with my Guild, is it not?”

 

“Correct.  I sincerely hope that this will be the last.  I chose the Crows because they are the best, but I have yet to witness this.”

 

“My apologies for disappointing you, my Lady.  The cells who accepted your contract were minor ones, lacking the proper training and experience.  They sought to further their repute but instead, they have earned the disdain of their fellows.  I decided that it was time to handle the situation myself before further ridicule could affect the Crows’ reputation.”

 

“This is wonderful news, Master Ignacio.  Your cell will fulfill the contract then?”

 

“Actually, that is not why I am here, my Lady.”  Ignacio reached to his belt and withdrew a small leather pouch.  He slid it across the table to the woman.  “This is the money you paid the Guild to carry out your contract.  You may count it; I will personally vouch for every coin.”

 

The woman’s creamy skin flushed an ugly red.  “Exactly what is the meaning of this?  You refuse my contract?”

 

Ignacio calmly folded his hands on the table.  “The majority of the Guild was unaware of the specifics of your contract until word surfaced of the two failures.  Once the head Masters learned of it, strict commands were sent to all cells to refuse the contract.  I was sent to return your funds.  We are not thieves, my Lady.”

 

The woman gripped the pouch tightly, her hands trembling with fury.  “May I ask why it is refused?”

 

Ignacio leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice.  “There are two reasons.  First, you asked for the assassination of the Ferelden monarchy, and the Crows do not take royal assignments lightly.  In particular, we do not take action of _any_ sort against King Alistair lightly.  You see, the King and the Hero of Ferelden provided a service to us during the Blight.  In return, they earned our infinite respect.  I’m afraid that I cannot condone a contract that would take his life.”

 

“And the second reason?”

 

“It has come to our attention that one of our former assassins has taken a place in King Alistair’s court.  Exactly what his function is, I do not know, but we have learned from past error that it is unwise to provoke him.”

 

“You mean Zevran Arainai.”  Her voice twisted with disgust.  “It is unbelievable that a Guild as powerful as the Crows would fear one elf.”

 

Ignacio’s face darkened.  “Do not ridicule the Guild, Madame, and do not underestimate Arainai.  If he were still a member of the Guild, he would be Master of his own cell, and I doubt not that his power would outshine most of ours.  We have learned to our regret, that it is better to release a clever dog than to lose all of our limbs to his sharp teeth.”

 

“So your Guild will not accept my request, even if I raise your payment?”

 

“I’m afraid not, my Lady.”

 

“And does your… _regard…_ for the Ferelden King mean that you will be passing along your knowledge of my intentions?”

 

“Of course not.  The confidentiality of our clients is paramount to our success, whether we accept or deny a contract.  The specifics of your request and your identity will not be revealed to anyone.”

 

The woman stuffed the pouch into the belt of her gown and stood.

 

“Well, I must say that I am most disappointed, Master Ignacio.  However, I do appreciate your assurance of secrecy.  Fortunately, I have been careful to not reveal my identity to your Guild.”  She lifted the corner of her mouth in a sneer.  “ _Not_ that I don’t trust your word, of course.”

 

“Quite so, my Lady Marjolaine,” replied Ignacio with a benign smile.  “Those of us in this profession can little afford to place our trust so lightly in someone we have only just met.”

 

The woman clenched her fists and tightened her lips, her eyes flashing in anger.  She yanked her cowl back over her head and strode out of the brothel in short, jerky steps.  Ignacio raised his wine to his nose and sniffed it appreciatively.  _Women are always much too emotional_ , he thought in amusement.

 

 

Even though he had only just recently passed his Harrowing, Connor was already anxious to achieve the rank of Senior Enchanter.  He couldn’t care less about the distinction; it was the privilege of having his own room that he craved.  The barracks afforded little privacy, and the only storage available was the standard chest at the foot of each cot.  Fortunately, there was a good-sized oaken desk next to his bed for him to spread out his books when he studied.  Once magi had completed their Harrowings, they were no longer required to attend classes but most continued to study on their own.  Connor had always been interested in the Fade, so he had immersed himself in what books he could find on the subject.

 

He was taking notes on an interesting theory about using the Fade to communicate with other magi across great distances when he heard soft footsteps behind him.  Turning around, he found himself confronted with a lovely, red-haired woman wearing the leather armor preferred by rogues.  She smiled at him in greeting.

 

“Excuse me, but are you Connor?”  Her voice was musical and had an Orlesian accent.

 

“Yes,” he replied.  “Who are you?”

 

“My name is Leliana, and I’m a friend of the First Enchanter.”  His face darkened at the mention of Rielle, and he scooted his chair back from the desk roughly.

 

“I suppose she sent you to talk to me?”  He had avoided Rielle since his Harrowing and they had not spoken since.  He had passed her in the halls, but when she looked at him pleadingly, he turned away.  The demon’s words still simmered in his heart, and when he dreamed, he saw his mother, blood exploding from her chest.

 

“May I sit?”  He sighed and gestured to a nearby chair, and she pulled it close to him.  “She told me that your Harrowing revealed to you what happened all those years ago.”

 

“Then you know about it also?”  His voice dripped with bitterness.  “It seems like everyone does except me, and I was Isolde’s son!”

 

“Only those who were there know about it, Connor.  I believe Rielle told the Knight Commander as well.”

 

“So you were there?”

 

“I was one of Rielle’s companions during the Blight and yes, I was there.”  She touched his cheek gently.  “You look very much like Isolde, you know, and she was quite beautiful.”

 

He swallowed thickly and stared down at the floor.  “I barely remember her.”

 

“She made a mistake, but she loved you very much.  She died that you might live free from the demon.”

 

“She died because of me.”  He closed his eyes, furious at the tears that gathered behind his eyelids.

 

“What happened was nobody’s fault, least of all, yours.  You were only a child, Connor.  As a mage, you know how powerful demons can be.  What defense could a child have against one?  You wanted to save your father, as any boy would want.  The demon took advantage of that.”

 

“I don’t remember what happened or even how a demon was able to contact me.”

 

“You had powers, Connor, powers that should have been recognized.  Rielle said that she was astonished at how strong you were at your age.  Isolde didn’t want to lose you to the Circle, so she tried to hide your magic.  She had good intentions, but even good intentions can go wrong.”

 

“They should have gotten help from the Circle instead of letting the blood mage kill my mother to send Rielle to the Fade.”  Connor glared at Leliana through tear-blurred eyes.

 

“There wasn’t time, Connor.  By the time they might have returned, the demon would have possessed you completely and destroyed the city.  Rielle made the choice to save you, at your mother’s request.”

 

Connor lowered his head into his hands.  “How my father must have hated me…”

 

“Of course not!”  Leliana reached out to stroke his hair.  “No one blames you, Connor.  If anything, Rielle blames only herself.  She cried herself to sleep that night, you know, after it was all over.  I held her until she fell asleep, and she never spoke of it again.”

 

“I blamed her too.”  Connor raised his head, and Leliana brushed the tears from his face.  “I was so angry… I hated myself, so I lashed out at her.”

 

“Trust me, you could not cause her any more suffering than she causes herself.  She always was the one who carried all the burdens, and she carries them still.”  She reached for a handkerchief from her belt and handed it to him.

 

“Thank you, for telling me about it.”  Connor dried his face and returned the damp handkerchief sheepishly.

 

“No problem at all.”  She stood and stretched slightly.  “I’m here with the Warden Commander of Ferelden to speak to Rielle about some things we have discovered.  Rielle mentioned that it would be helpful if you came to our meeting tonight.  You are very intuitive, she says.”

 

“If you think it would be okay…”

 

“I think it would be splendid.”


	11. Chapter 11

Alistair rubbed his temples in an effort to relieve the persistent ache throbbing between them.  Lately, it felt like the stone walls were closing in on him, caging him like an animal.  _Even with the threat of assassination hanging over my head, I need to get away from here for a while_.  He knew Eamon would fly into a rage if he suggested leaving the safety of the palace, but he couldn’t continue to live like a hermit.

 

A sharp rap sounded on the door, and Zevran entered without waiting for permission.  He wore a yellow, silk shirt that matched the amber of his eyes and soft deer hide breeches that seemed to cling to every muscle in his legs.  He draped himself over the chair in front of Alistair’s desk and his shirt, which was unbuttoned down to his chest, gapped open to reveal the line of a tattoo against bronzed skin.  Alistair steadfastly refused to allow his eyes to settle on the enticing exposure of flesh.

 

“Do you need something, Zevran?”  The headache seemed to be spreading to his neck, and he kneaded it with a grimace.

 

“Just wondering how long you intend to keep yourself imprisoned _, mi amigo_.”  He watched Alistair dig the heel of his palm against his temple.  “Headache?”

 

“I had a long meeting earlier with Eamon.  The man nags more than a wife.”

 

Zevran stood and moved quietly behind Alistair’s chair, batting away the King’s hands and replacing them with his own.  Expert fingers probed the back of Alistair’s neck, locating the sore muscles and stroking them firmly.  “And what does our most proper seneschal want with you now?”

 

Alistair relaxed under Zevran’s ministrations _.  It’s just a massage, damn it_.  He wondered why he had to reassure himself that it was okay to allow Zevran to touch him.  “Apparently, I spend too much money on the Alienage, and the upper class is growing restless because I’m helping the elves instead of fixing up their estates.  Sodding aristocrats,” he growled.

 

“Some attitudes never change, _mi amigo_.  You know this.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I’ll quit trying.”  Zevran’s fingers moved into his hair and kneaded his scalp.  Alistair released a sigh of pleasure.  “Maker, but you are really good at this.”

 

“I’m good at many things, my King.”  He could hear the amusement in Zevran’s voice and refused to acknowledge the slight flush of warmth Zevran’s words provoked.  “Was that all Eamon wanted to discuss?”

 

“He wants me to remarry.”  Zevran’s thumbs were focusing on a particularly sensitive spot at the base of his skull, just above the top of his spine.  Not only was it relieving the pain, it was distracting his thoughts.  “I told him no, and he nearly set himself on fire in his fury.”

 

Zevran chuckled.  “Let me guess.  He has assembled a list of all the marriageable noble women in Ferelden and wishes to parade them before your throne.”

 

“I don’t care who is on his list.  I refuse to marry another woman who cares only for my name, while secretly holding me in disdain for my bastard parentage.  I’m tired of being a pawn.”

 

“Aren’t we all someone’s pawn?  I doubt that most of us even know the hand that moves us.”  Zevran moved to perch on the edge of Alistair’s desk so that he was facing the King.  “You have more power than most pawns, however, Alistair.  Do not allow someone else to dictate your moves.”

 

“I’m not… not anymore.  Eamon has his heir to the throne in Duncan.  I refuse to marry another woman just to fulfill his political machinations.”

 

“Then forget women.”  Zevran swiped his hand through the air as if brushing away dirt.  “Men can be just as desirable, no?”

 

Alistair felt the flush that crept up his neck and across his face.  He couldn’t quite force himself to meet Zevran’s gaze and stared down at the letter on his desk instead.  “I received an interesting correspondence today.”

 

Zevran noted Alistair’s blush but decided not to remark on it.  _Eight years ago, he would have angrily spouted some nonsense about the Maker frowning on such things.  Now he blushes like a shy, inexperienced girl._ “Oh?”

 

“It’s from Rielle.”  Alistair knew he didn’t imagine the slight stiffening of Zevran’s posture.  “She wanted to let me know that there is a new Knight Commander at the Circle.  She doesn’t sound too happy about the man; he is harsh with the magi.  She worries that Ferelden’s Circle may be headed in the same direction as Kirkwall’s.”

 

Zevran turned his head to stare out the window.  “This is all she says?”

 

“Yes.  She rarely writes me at all.”  Alistair dropped his gaze to his hands, which were fidgeting with the letter.  “There’s something I need to say to you.  I’ve wanted to say it since you returned, but…”  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zevran turn his head back to him, but he couldn’t lift his eyes to that penetrating gaze.  “I owe you an apology, Zev.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Rielle… I knew how you felt about her.”  Alistair’s fingers clenched and crumbled the letter.  “I should have backed off and instead, I interfered.  It was wrong.”  He sighed.  “Obviously, I wasn’t enough to keep her anyway.  I seem to have this repulsive effect on the women in my life.”  He laughed bitterly.

 

Zevran sat quietly for a moment, searching his heart for the hatred he had once had for Alistair, for taking Rielle from him.  It had long since disappeared, replaced by the dull ache of loss for someone who had never truly been his.  “The choice was always hers, Alistair.  It would seem that neither of us was the person she needed.”  He reached out and grasped Alistair’s chin, forcing him to look up.  “Nevertheless, I appreciate the apology, _mi_ _amigo_.”

 

Alistair met his gaze directly.  “And I appreciate what you’ve done for me by returning to help Duncan and me.”

 

 _Wardens_ , Zevran thought wryly, _their openness will be my undoing_.  He lowered his face to Alistair’s, watching the human carefully.  When Alistair did not pull away, he gently pressed his lips against Alistair’s.  He felt the other man stiffen in response but instead of retreating, Alistair allowed his lips to part, and Zevran briefly slid his tongue inside, brushing along Alistair’s tongue before retreating.  He pulled away, noting the King’s flushed skin and eyes widened in shock.  His curiosity satisfied, he casually returned to his chair.  “So what are you going to do about Rielle’s concerns?”

 

“Um….”  Clearly flustered, Alistair ran his hand through his cropped hair, causing it to stand on end.  “I was thinking about paying a visit to Kirkwall.”  His voice shook slightly and he cleared his throat _.  Damn it, Alistair_ , he thought _, don’t let him get to you like that_.  “I need to get out of here and do something before I go crazy.  I’ll take Teagan with me, and we will offer Ferelden’s assistance to Kirkwall while they try to find a new leader.  I’m sure it has to be chaos there since the viscount’s death.  I want to check out their Circle anyway and see why Rielle’s concerned about it.”

 

“I will be accompanying you as your bodyguard, of course.”  Before Alistair could respond, Zevran smiled and stood, giving the King a small bow.  “I will go prepare for our journey, _mi amigo_.  It will be gratifying to breathe some fresh air, yes?”  He gave Alistair a sly wink and left.

 

Alistair waited until the door shut behind him before letting his head fall to the desk.  _Maker, what is wrong with me?  Why didn’t I stop him?_   He could still feel the warmth of Zevran’s lips, the wet rasp of his tongue, and that silky hair brushing against his cheek _.  Enough.  I need to get a grip_.  Suddenly, the journey to Kirkwall filled him with both anticipation and dread.

 

 

  

  1. She assured him that she would supervise the meeting and quietly asserted her authority in the matter.
  



 

  

  1. As a result, she had been given the position of Circle Librarian and knew the location of every book.
  



 

Rielle entered the room, followed by Nathaniel and Temmerin.  A few minutes later, Leliana arrived and sat next to Nathaniel.  Rielle lifted her eyebrows at Leliana, and the Seeker shrugged apologetically.  Rielle lowered her eyes sadly and sighed.

 

"Warden Commander, would you mind repeating the part of your story concerning the Primeval Thaig?"  Dagna dipped a quill into an inkpot and hovered over her stack of parchment.

 

Before Nathaniel could reply, the door creaked open and Connor entered hesitantly.  Immediately, Rielle's face lit up and she gestured for Connor to take an empty seat.  The young mage glanced around the table warily, but grinned when he saw Dagna.  Leliana gave him a warm smile.

 

"Oh, wonderful!  You came too, Connor!  You gotta hear this story."  Dagna beamed with excitement and waved to Nathaniel to begin.

 

It took some time for Nathaniel to relay all the details since Dagna frequently interrupted him with questions, taking notes on his answers.  Temmerin chimed in from time to time with observations of his own.  Dagna seemed especially interested in the architecture of the Thaig, and the way the red lyrium had been been worked into the walls and statues.  When they had finished their tale, Leliana looked to Dagna and the two magi.

 

"So, what do you think?"

 

Dagna's eyes were closed, and both hands were clasped beneath her chin, one finger tapping her lips while she thought.  Rielle looked at Nathaniel.

 

"So by touching this new type of lyrium, your Warden went insane and killed the mage and himself?"  Nathaniel nodded at her.  "It sounds too dangerous to handle.  Usually, dwarves can handle unprocessed lyrium without any problems.  This red lyrium is obviously much more potent."

 

"What if it could be used without coming in contact with it?" asked Connor.

 

"We have no idea how the substance behaves.  It would be risky for anyone to experiment with it," said Rielle.

 

"I was hoping it deterred darkspawn," said Nathaniel.  "There were none in the vicinity of the Thaig, yet there were open passages that connected it to the Dark Roads above it."

 

"Perhaps it drives them insane too?" suggested Rielle.

 

Leliana was thinking hard.  "How many people know of this red lyrium?" she asked Nathaniel.  She thought of the Divine’s request for more information regarding the Thaig and the new kind of lyrium.  Given the Chantry’s monopoly on the lyrium trade, it didn’t take much thought to see why the Divine was interested.

 

"The Tethras brothers didn't keep it a secret.  I had heard about it before I went there," said Nathaniel.  “In fact, one brother returned with an idol crafted from the lyrium.  Hawke believes that the dwarves may have worshipped it.”

 

"If someone wants it, let them try to take it," said Connor.  "They'll just go mad like the Warden."

 

Leliana was watching Dagna, who had remained strangely silent.  "Dagna?  Any thoughts?"

 

The petite dwarf opened her eyes, which were shining with excitement.  “Don’t you see?  This means that dwarves used to be able to use magic!  Perhaps with this red lyrium, we still can!”

 

“We don’t know that, Dagna,” said Connor.  “And Nathaniel said it drove Varric’s brother insane.”

 

Dagna kicked her feet against the table in frustration.  “It’s too bad some of it couldn’t be brought back from the Thaig.”

 

Temmerin cleared his throat, and they turned to him.  “Well, actually… we just might have a small piece….”

 

Nathaniel looked at him in horror.  “Temmerin, what are you talking about?”

 

The dwarf reached into his belt and removed a small leather pouch.  He set it hesitantly on the table, snatching his hand away from it as if it burned.  “I didn’t know it was so dangerous, Commander.  Honest!”

 

They all stared at the pouch as if it were a bomb about to explode.  “Temmerin, you heard me talk about how it drove Storvin insane!”  Nathaniel reached out as if to swipe the pouch off the table but withdrew his hand at the last moment.

 

“I know, Commander, but I felt fine and I never touched it!  Just chipped off a piece with my axe and scooped it into a box.”  Temmerin stared down at his hands guiltily.  “I was gonna sell it, or maybe see if my brother wanted to use it for his explosives.”  He raised his eyes pleadingly to Nathaniel.  “I’m sorry, Commander.  I didn’t mean to cause any trouble!”

 

Nathaniel ran a tired hand over his face.  “What’s done is done.  It appears that it didn’t affect you.  The question is what do we do with it?”

 

Dagna was bouncing in her seat.  “First Enchanter, please, may we just look at it?”

 

“Rielle, do you feel anything?  When we were in the Thaig, Lucas said it made his skin feel strange and he heard whispering in his head.”  Nathaniel looked at Rielle worriedly.

 

She shook her head.  “I don’t feel anything at all.  Maybe since it’s such a small piece, it doesn’t affect magi as strongly.”  She reached out and took the pouch gently, handing it to Dagna.  “Go ahead, Dagna.  It seems safest for a dwarf to open this.  Just be careful.”

 

Everyone tensed as Dagna opened the pouch and withdrew a small steel box the size of her hand.  Just as she was about to open it, Nathaniel tossed her a pair of leather gloves.

 

“Wear these, just in case.”

 

She pulled on the gloves, which were twice the size of her hands, and clumsily opened the lid of the box.  Peering in, she saw a small rock that looked similar to a garnet—smooth, multi-faceted, and blood-red.  It looked dull and lifeless, with none of the eerie glow that Nathaniel had described.  The others gathered around her chair to stare at the lyrium.

 

“Looks rather harmless,” commented Connor.

 

“Trust me, it isn’t,” said Nathaniel.  “It must lose its glow when it’s broken off from the lyrium vein.”

 

Before anyone could stop him, Connor stretched out his hand over the box.  He waved it in the air over the lyrium for a moment before Rielle grabbed his wrist and pulled it back roughly.

 

“Connor!  Be careful!”

 

“It’s okay, it didn’t hurt me.”  The young mage rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully while staring at the lyrium.  “I felt something though… kind of like a vibration.”  His eyes glazed slightly, and he appeared almost mesmerized by the sight of the ruby-colored rock.

 

Rielle reached out and quickly slammed the lid of the box shut, breaking his gaze.  Connor shook himself slightly as the others looked at him with concern.

 

“Really, I’m fine.  That was a weird feeling.”

 

“Did you hear anything?” Nathaniel asked sharply.

 

“Nope.  Not a thing.”

 

Dagna was unaffected by the incident.  “First Enchanter, may I please study this if I’m careful to never touch it?  It might be something we can use here!” she begged.

 

Rielle frowned.  “I’d like to be present when you do.  From what Nathaniel said, it’s deadly.”

 

Leliana stifled a yawn.  “Maybe we can talk about it more in the morning?  It’s been a long day.”

 

“Sounds good to me,” said Rielle.  “I’ll keep this in my study for now.”  She picked up the box and led the others out of the library.  Connor was the last to leave and paused in the doorway to rub his forehead.  He had heard _something_ in his head when his hand was near the lyrium, but it hadn’t lasted long enough to decipher.  Somehow, he didn’t think it would be wise to mention it to the others though.  The voice was gone, but the presence it left behind was like an itch in his mind.  Unfortunately, he knew of only one way to scratch it.

 

 

Horses were uncommon in Ferelden, but Eamon had made it a priority to have some available at the Palace.  Alistair had been fascinated with them and within months of the horses’ arrival early in his reign, he had become an expert at riding.  Teagan was less comfortable around the beasts, but could handle them well enough to ride the road to Amaranthine where he and Alistair would take a ship to Kirkwall.  A small contingent of guards would accompany them, along with Zevran.  The guards were already mounted and waiting in the front courtyard when Teagan and Zevran arrived with their travel packs on their backs.

 

Teagan mounted with the help of the stableman and grimaced as he settled in the saddle.  “My body is going to pay for this later.  Whatever happened to using our legs?”

 

Zevran chuckled and leaped gracefully onto the back of his horse.  He needed no saddle and preferred to ride bareback.  “Times change, my Lord.  Perhaps soon, we shall be riding dragons in the air, hmm?”

 

Teagan shuddered.  “I think I’d sooner crawl in the dirt.”

 

They both turned to face the King, who approached holding Duncan in his arms while Eamon followed behind.  The small boy was begging to go with them to Kirkwall.

 

“Papa, I really want to ride the boat with you!”

 

“I know, Duncan, and I promise that someday soon we will sail together.”  Alistair knelt on the ground and pulled the child close.  “I’ll tell you what.  How about we start teaching you to ride a horse?  I think you’re old enough to learn.”

 

Duncan clapped his hands.  “Really?  I can start riding?”

 

Alistair looked over at the stableman.  “Absolutely.  Ghireth, can you start giving Duncan some lessons while I’m gone?”

 

The man bowed.  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

 

“Thank you, Papa!”

 

“Just behave while I’m gone, okay?  And no going anywhere without telling someone.”  Alistair gave his son a hug and kissed the top of his mussed blond hair.  “I’ll miss you, and I’ll be back soon.”

 

“Okay, Papa.  _Te amo_!”  At Alistair’s look of confusion, the boy grinned impishly.  “It means ‘I love you’ in Antivan.  Zev taught me!”  He looked over at Zevran anxiously.  “Did I say it right?”

 

“You said it perfectly, _mi_ _chico_.  Soon, you will sound like a true Antivan.”

 

Alistair smiled and ruffled Duncan’s hair.  “ _Te amo_ , Duncan.”  He mounted his horse and looked at Eamon.

 

“Make sure Kylon keeps some guards close to him at all times.”

 

“Of course, Alistair.  I still wish you would reconsider this journey but since you will not, be careful.”

 

“I always am, Eamon, and I’ve got Zevran to keep an eye on me.”  Eamon tightened his lips, and Alistair restrained a chuckle.  He was quite certain Zevran hadn’t missed Eamon’s expression.  Glancing at the elf, he saw Duncan tapping Zevran’s ankle.

 

“Will you tell me all about it when you come back, Zev?”

 

“Certainly, _mi_ _chico_.  Perhaps I’ll bring you a present, hmm?”  Zevran smiled fondly down at the boy.  “And when I return, you can show me how well you have learned to ride.”

 

Duncan grinned and ran back to grab Eamon’s hand as the group slowly filed out of the courtyard on their horses.  The last thing Alistair saw was his son’s small, grubby hand waving enthusiastically at their backs.  He steered his horse over to ride beside Zevran.

 

“Duncan seems quite taken with you.  I appreciate the time you spend with him.”

 

Zevran shrugged.  “He’s an intelligent child and quick to learn.  He will make a good King if our proud seneschal doesn’t pass on his dour personality to him.”  His lips quirked in a lopsided smile.

 

“Eamon is of an older generation and needs to let go of his prejudices.  I’d tell you to ignore him, but I suspect that you enjoy goading him.”

 

Zevran raised his eyebrows innocently.  “I would _never_ provoke our esteemed Eamon.”

 

Alistair shook his head and spurred his horse forward, laughing to himself.

 

By the time the sun was dipping below the distant hills, Denerim was far behind them and the road to Amaranthine wound its way along the coastline ahead.  The group pulled off the road near a small wooded area and began setting up tents and preparing dinner.  While they ate, Alistair brought Teagan up-to-date on the situation in Kirkwall.

 

“Sounds like Meredith has the city under her command now,” said Teagan.

 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” replied Alistair.  “I can just imagine how the Circle feels about _that_ turn of events.  Things aren’t going well there, and Rielle is afraid that the Ferelden Circle will start leaning in the same direction with that new Commander, Lutherain.”

 

“I’m not sure we should get involved, Alistair.  Isn’t it the Chantry’s place to mediate between the templars and magi?  The Grand Cleric won’t like you interfering.”

 

“The magi are as much under my protection as every other citizen of Ferelden.  I won’t tolerate any abuse from the templars, but hopefully it won’t come to that.”

 

While the guards cleaned up after dinner, Alistair looked around for Zevran but the elf had disappeared.  He told Teagan he wanted to bathe and headed to the woods where there was a small stream.  Harvest time had passed and the autumn nights were becoming chilly.  Alistair stripped quickly and gritted his teeth before entering the icy ripples of water.  Goosebumps covered his summer tan as he lathered and washed himself while trying not to shiver.  It wasn’t until he had gratefully left the stream and was toweling off that he noticed Zevran sitting on a nearby rock watching him.

 

Alistair flushed and hastily turned his back to the elf, wishing fervently that he could forget the memory of the kiss they had shared in Alistair’s study.  He still could not understand why he was feeling such an attraction to the elf, for attraction it definitely was, as much as he longed to deny it.  Men had never interested him before, so why was Zevran having this effect on him?  He pulled his undergarments, trousers, and tunic back on before turning to face the assassin, who was leisurely combing his wet hair and toweling it dry.

 

“If you had said something, I would have waited and given you some privacy, Zev.”

 

Zevran gave him a quizzical look.  “I need no privacy, Alistair.  You have seen me unclothed before, quite recently, in fact.”  His lips curled up in amusement.  “I certainly didn’t mind seeing _you_.”

 

Unable to think of a proper response, Alistair stood awkwardly while the elf finished with his hair and donned his shirt.  Zevran gave him an intense look and approached him slowly.

 

“Does it bother you that I find you attractive, _mi amigo_?”

 

 _Maker, he doesn’t mince words, does he_?  “I….”  He swallowed, trying to organize his racing thoughts.  “Zev, why did you kiss me?  Before, I mean?”  _There, I’ve finally asked him_.

 

Zev cocked his head slightly, appraising him.  “Let’s just say I was seeking an answer to a question.”

 

Alistair could not pull his eyes from that steady amber gaze.  “And… did you find an answer?”  He wiped his suddenly sweating palms on his trousers.

 

“I think so, but I do not believe that you know the answer yourself yet.”  Zevran hesitated as if he would say more but then shrugged and walked back into the woods toward the camp.  Alistair stared after him, wondering if Zevran’s question was the same as the one now fluttering in circles inside his head.

 

Later that night, as he lay in his bedroll staring at the small fire in the center of his tent, the question wouldn’t give him any peace.  Despite his time in the Chantry, Alistair had never held any negative feelings toward men who preferred other men, or women who preferred women.  It was one of those things he simply didn’t dwell on, since it had never affected him personally.  When he had first met Zevran during the Blight, the elf had blatantly flirted with Alistair, but since Zevran had flirted with everyone at first, Alistair had ignored it.  This time, years later, Zevran’s flirting was very different… more subtle and personal.  He was clearly giving Alistair every opportunity to step away with his dignity intact.  So the question simply was, did he want to?

 

 

Zevran sat close to the fire in his tent, sharpening his daggers while he waited for his hair to dry.  He wore fur-trimmed leather clothing, but it wasn’t enough to shield him from the night’s chilly air, so he had a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders as well.  He had almost forgotten how cold it could get in Ferelden, and it wasn’t even winter yet.  Fortunately, the farther north they traveled, the warmer the climate would become.  He made a mental note to purchase some winter clothing in Kirkwall, since the market there was of higher quality than the simple leather available in Ferelden.  He longed for the sun-baked bricks of his balcony in Antiva and hoped that his housekeeper was taking good care of his loft while he was away.

 

A soft rustling outside his tent interrupted his thoughts of home, and he immediately leaped to a defensive stance, shucking off the blanket.  The tent flap parted to reveal a rather sheepish-looking Alistair.  They stood facing each other warily for a moment before Zevran relaxed and tossed his daggers to his pack.  He waited calmly for Alistair to speak, suspecting from the way he ran his fingers through his hair, that it was better to allow Alistair to make the first move.

 

“You know, I’ve been asking myself why exactly I have these… _thoughts_ … when I’m around you.  I’ve never had any inclinations toward men, after all.”  He cleared his throat and shifted his feet, staring at the dusty ground.  “But then I started thinking of certain things about you:  the way you are with Duncan, how you listen to me without judgment, the flippant jokes you’re always making, the fact that you came back to Ferelden to help me, and Maker, the way you _move_ when you fight.”  His eyes lifted to meet the golden ones staring into his.  “And I realized that this isn’t about being attracted to men, because I feel nothing when I look at other men.  This is about _you_ , and the way only _you_ make me feel when you look at me like you are right now.”  His hands twitched involuntarily.  “You certainly owe me nothing, yet you’ve already saved my life and done even more than that.”  He took a few hesitant steps forward, closing the space between them.  “I know how you feel about commitment, and I’m not sure what I’m even asking for here….”  His voice faltered at last, and his eyes pleaded with Zevran, begging for some kind of acknowledgement.

 

 _And how am I to answer that, when I don’t even know what I myself am asking for_?  He had never intended to seduce the King; Alistair wasn’t some mark he needed to weaken with lust.  His initial attentions had been triggered by Alistair’s loneliness, which echoed his own.  That Alistair had actually _responded_ to those attentions was not something he had been prepared for.  Once it was noticed, however, Zevran simply could not resist pursuing this _thing_ that had awakened between them.  It filled an emptiness inside of him that had lain neglected throughout the years, ever since Rinna had died because of his betrayal.

 

And so came the final realization that Zevran’s own ache for some kind of connection was exactly what Alistair needed as well.  He took the final step that brought him chest to chest with Alistair, and raised his face as Alistair buried his hands in Zevran’s hair and pulled him into a desperate kiss that laid bare all the unspoken emotions sparking through them.


	12. Chapter 12

The stone walls of Kinloch Hold flickered eerily in the dim light of the torches, the wispy smoke from the flames adding to the ghostly atmosphere.  As he moved stealthily down the corridor, Connor wondered how many Avvar spirits still wandered the Tower, seeking vengeance against the Tevinter for their slaughter.  No doubt they were joined by the ghosts of oppressed magi desiring retribution for their imprisonment at the hands of the templars.

  


He was taking a risk, leaving his bunk in the dark watch of night, well after the new curfew Lutherain had set for the magi.  Fortunately, the Knight Commander was overly confident in his ability to control the magi and did not bother setting many guards at night.  The ones on duty were posted at the stairwells and the entrance to the Tower.  There were none present between his sleeping quarters and Rielle’s study.

  


Protective runes kept the sturdy door locked, of course, but his reputation as one of the strongest magi in the Tower’s history had not been gained lightly.  Murmuring a few soft words, he passed his hand over the door, and the invisible runes appeared with a soft, blue glow over the aged surface.  Placing his fingers over the figures, he closed his eyes and focused.  The runes glowed a bright fiery red, momentarily lighting the hall with a crimson flash, and then they faded back into the oak.  Connor hesitated, glancing behind him to see if the flash had attracted any attention, but the hall was silent.  He pushed the door open and swiftly entered the study, closing the door quietly with a soft click.

  


Silver moonlight shone from the room’s only window and sent a shaft of muted light across Rielle’s desk.  The small steel box sat in the middle where she had left it earlier, its shiny surface reflecting the moonlight.  Connor ran his hand over it lightly, feeling the faint hum of the lyrium inside, its latent power sending a shiver through his body.  He knew he shouldn’t be here, that Rielle would be aghast at what he was about to do alone.  But the lyrium’s song would not leave his mind; it had woven itself into his thoughts as soon as he had placed his hand near the box.  It called to him in a way he could not explain, and he could not _rest_ , could not _think_ until he responded.

  


He opened the lid slowly and the moonlight struck the crimson fragment, but instead of reflecting off the smooth surface, it was absorbed into the depths of the rock.  The song in his head intensified, whispering to him a promise of fulfillment.  Breathing deeply, Connor reached out with trembling fingers and in a sudden jerky movement, he grasped the lyrium in his fist.

  


The song exploded in his brain and crushed him to his knees, a strangled moan ripping from his throat.  Sparks of power arced through his body like bolts of electricity.  The enticing whispers became shrieks of rage that threatened to consume his mind.  He collapsed on the floor, nails digging into his palms, chest heaving with frantic gasps.  His eyes were clenched shut, but he could still see the bloody glow of lyrium against the back of his eyelids.

  


The power of the lyrium pushed against his thoughts, struggling to mold them into its own design _.  No.  It will consume me, drive me insane with its sheer power_.  He reached deep into himself, into the same well of strength he had found when he had fought the demon of his past.  He forced his body to calm, to go still while he immersed himself in the heated center of his being, a place he had discovered during his Harrowing.  He reached for his anger, the same fury that the demon had provoked in the Fade.  _Yes, this is the way._

He built upon his rage, allowing the storm to grow inside his body, and felt a sharp wind against his skin.  The tendrils of power weaving into his mind faltered, and he pushed the tempest of his fury against them.  _I will not ever be controlled again like I was before_.  His magic flared outward from his core, borne on the tide of his grief at what had happened to his mother because of the demon who had controlled him. _Never again._

The whispers in his mind fled before his rage and the song dimmed.  The redness of the lyrium was still there but lay dormant and subdued.  Slowly, he allowed the anger to ebb, cautiously holding the lyrium’s power at bay with a mental grip of iron will.  He came back to the sensations of his body, and opening his eyes, he pushed himself up to a standing position.

  


He was not in Rielle’s study anymore.  Everywhere around him stretched a familiar distorted landscape:  trees, rocks, and sparse grass, all gray and twisted.  He had entered the Fade.  He looked around warily, half-expecting some kind of attack, but all was still and silent.  He was on a path that wound up across a steep hill.  Uncertain of what else to do, he began to climb.  As he did so, he noticed that the trees and grass around him appeared to stretch, reaching toward him as if trying to touch his skin.  Glancing down, he was surprised to notice that he still gripped the red lyrium in his fist, and it was glowing brightly, casting shadows of the only color in this gray realm.

  


At the top of the hill, he found a large clearing throughout which lay scattered clumps of lyrium veins.  They were not blue, but instead gleamed with the same blood-red glow as the rock in his hand.  Curious, he approached one and laid his palm against the flickering, cold surface.  Instantly, the Fade disappeared, and he was surrounded by a blackness that stretched everywhere around him in an endless night.  He looked down but could not even see himself or the lyrium in his hand.  And then he heard the voices.

  


They were not the whispers he had heard earlier, malevolently singing their song of insanity.  These were voices he _knew_ , heard every day in his life in the Tower.  From his right came the deep voice of the mage who bunked next to him.  Further off, he detected the high-pitched voice of the child who had only recently been brought to the Circle by the templars.  Everywhere in the darkness around him came the sounds of his brothers and sisters, their voices encompassing an entire range of emotion:  fear, elation, pain, sorrow, happiness, curiosity, even arousal.  Confused, he tried to sort through all the sounds until he found the one he sought.  _There_ it was, the soft voice of Rielle.

  


As he focused on her voice, it was as if he moved through the blackness toward her, and her words grew louder and more clear.  She was in pain, crying for someone whose name he recognized.  Anders.  He had heard of this mage who had escaped the Tower seven times before finally being conscripted into the Wardens.  Her grief as she cried his name was so strong and he reached out in the darkness to comfort her and touched… _something_.  Rielle’s cries stopped abruptly and suddenly, she was _there_ next to him in the darkness.  He couldn’t see her, but he felt her presence as surely as if they were in the real world.

  


“Connor?”  Her soft voice was confused and alarmed.

  


“Rielle!  I mean… First Enchanter!”  Did rank matter in this strange night?  “Thank the Maker!  I don’t know where I am….”

  


Her words cut sharply through the dark.  “You’re in my dream!  What… _how_ did you get here?”

  


 _In her dream_?  “I… uh…”  _Andraste’s ass, she’s going to kill me_.  He felt an irrational urge to laugh at the fact that he was suddenly scared of her wrath while in the middle of the Fade.  “I went into your office and touched the lyrium.”  He heard her gasp.  “I’m sorry!  I just… I couldn’t get it out of my mind all night, and I had to see more of it.”

  


“And now you’re in the middle of my dream, talking to me?”  Yes, there was no mistaking that angry tone.  He was going to be in big trouble if he ever made it back from this place.

  


“Yes…um… it’s kind of a long story.”

  


“Connor, are you in danger?”

  


“I don’t think so.  I think I was earlier, but everything seems to have calmed down now.”

  


“Get out of the Fade, _now_.  Can you find your way back?”

  


“I guess I can try….”

  


“Damn it, Connor.  Get out of here and be safe about it!”  He could hear her concern and fear beneath the anger.

  


 _Okay, but how_?  Remembering how he had come, he calmed himself and reached back down into the mysterious pit in his core.  Again, he could feel the redness of the lyrium, still under his control, but barely.  It rippled and seethed at the edges of his consciousness, and he grasped it, controlling its seeking tendrils and forcing them to _his_ design.  A thrill shot through him as he felt the surge of power fill him.  Suddenly, he was surrounded by ice, and Maker, but he was _cold_.

  


Shivering and gasping, he opened his eyes to find himself on his hands and knees on the stone floor of Rielle’s study.  His head throbbed, and he pushed himself shakily to his feet just as the door burst open and Rielle rushed in wearing her nightclothes.  She grabbed Connor by the shoulders and looked him over frantically.

  


“Where is that damned lyrium?”  He opened his fist, and they both stared down at the dull, lifeless rock in his palm.  Her voice shook.  “Put it back in the box, Connor.”

  


He obeyed, closing the lid of the box securely.  He still felt cold and shaky, yet strangely elated.  “First Enchanter, I _did_ it.  I entered the Fade, without using any prepared lyrium potion.  And I _spoke to you with my mind_.  Do you know what this means?”

  


“It means that you’re a complete idiot and lucky to be alive.”  She rubbed her forehead and sighed.  “It’s the middle of the night, and I think we’re both too tired to speak of this now.  If you feel okay, let’s go to bed, and we can talk about this in the morning.”

  


He nodded, feeling exhausted.  As they both headed for the door, she laid a hand on his arm.  “And Connor?  If you ever break into my study again, I’ll let the templars throw you into Lake Calenhad from the Tower’s roof.  Do I make myself clear?”

  


“Yes, First Enchanter.”

  


  


Alistair stood at the side of the ship, staring up at the cliffs adorned with enormous statues of slaves, their heads bowed with despair.  He had heard of the famed harbor of Kirkwall, but words could not match the sheer size of the bronzed figures rising above him.

  


“Quite impressive, no?  One wonders that they haven’t collapsed into the water after so many years.”  The smooth tenor sent shivers up his spine as Zevran came to stand beside him at the rail, and the memory of Zevran’s tongue exploring his mouth flashed unbidden through his mind.

  


“Monstrous is more like it,” he replied, struggling to keep himself calm.  “How could they glorify such suffering?”

  


Zevran chuckled and leaned forward on his elbows.  “Glorification was never their purpose, _mi amigo_.  Those statues were meant to drive despair into the hearts of slaves as they entered on their ships.  They were never allowed to forget that they would be forced to submit and serve.”  He stared down into the water, and Alistair remembered belatedly that Zevran himself had been a slave, bought by the Crows and trained to serve their cause.  He had heard only a little of what Zevran had suffered at the hands of his masters, but it was enough to fill his heart with rage that anyone could be treated in such a way.  Furthermore, in many parts of Thedas it continued.

  


That night in the tent had inevitably changed things between them.  It had gone no further than the kiss, Zevran being the one to remind Alistair that there was little privacy in the close quarters of the camp, and the King had a need to be discreet.  However, he had been quick to assure Alistair that once they were situated in comfortable rooms in Kirkwall, Alistair would no longer be safe from Zevran’s attentions.  He could still remember the flush of heat the promise had incited in him.

  


“Since you’ve been here before, anything I should know?”  He tried _not_ to think about the comfortable rooms they would have tonight.

  


  
“Hmm… it would not be a bad idea to meet the Champion, Lia Hawke.    She is quite a remarkable woman.”

  


Alistair glanced at Zevran out of the corner of his eye.  “Indeed?  And just how intimately do you know this lady?”

  


Zevran grinned at him.  “Are you jealous, _mi amigo_?”

  


 _Damn him_.  Feeling a blush heat his neck, Alistair turned his attention to the water below.  “Not at all.  It doesn’t hurt to be prepared though, in case she’s quite put out by you leaving her.”  _There.  For once, I had a comeback_.

  


“Oh ho!”  Zevran threw back his head and laughed.  “Well, I really cannot remember _ever_ leaving any woman unsatisfied, but your worries are quite unfounded.  She appeared to be smitten by a different elf with a rather amazing display of tattoos.”

  


“And yours aren’t amazing?”

  


Zevran moved closer, his lips next to Alistair’s ear.  “So you think they are?  I am most… flattered, Alistair.”

  


His warm breath tickled Alistair’s ear, and Alistair swallowed hard.  He would be damned if he would back down though.  “I think there are many things about you that are… amazing.”  He turned his head and forced himself to meet the amber eyes only inches from his own and was glad he did.  For just a brief moment, a look crossed Zevran’s face, a very subtle softening, a hint of vulnerability.  In that second, he saw what he knew to be the real Zevran, the one behind the mask worn for protection.  The mask snapped back in place, but Alistair had seen it and made it a personal goal to see it again.

  


Zevran straightened with a playful smirk.  “Well, you shall have your chance to find out, _mi amigo_.  I haven’t forgotten my promise.”  He sauntered off to gather his things, leaving Alistair alone to contemplate the soaring cliffs of Kirkwall.

  


  


A red-haired, freckled woman in hard plate armor met them at the docks.  She knelt before Alistair and introduced herself as Aveline, Captain of the Guard.

  


“Your accent is Ferelden, Captain, or am I mistaken?” asked Teagan.

  


“I am from Ferelden, my Lord.  I was forced to leave during the Blight, but I still have fond memories of my homeland.”

  


Alistair gripped her shoulder with a smile.  “It is good to hear a voice from home here.”

  


Aveline and a contingent of her Guard escorted Alistair and his company to the Keep.

  


“Knight Commander Meredith sends her greetings and says that she will meet with you tomorrow, Your Majesty.  I’m afraid that we are currently without a leader, but the Knight Commander does her best to maintain civility in Kirkwall.  There are rooms at the Keep… they have been vacated by the Viscount’s family.”

  


“My condolences on the death of the Viscount, Captain,” said Alistair.  “The reason I’m here is to offer whatever aid Ferelden may deliver.”

  


“Thank you, Your Majesty.”  Aveline led them into the Keep.  “There are enough rooms here for all of your company.  Your guards can room with mine in the barracks.”

  


“Thank you, Captain.  I have a favor to ask if I may?”  At Aveline’s nod, Alistair handed her a letter.  “I wanted to send a request for a meeting to the Champion, but I do not know her address.  Can you see that this reaches her?”

  


“Of course, Your Majesty.  She is one of my friends.  I’ll deliver it myself.”  She showed Alistair, Teagan, and Zevran to their rooms on the upper floor.  “Dinner shall be held in the main hall in a few hours.  I shall see you there.”  She left with Alistair’s guards, heading for the barracks below.

  


Teagan watched her leave.  “I suppose we shall see many of our countrymen here in Kirkwall.  It’s sad to see that we lost so many of our people because of the Blight.”

  


Alistair sighed.  “I really can’t blame them for leaving.  When faced with certain death, you go wherever you can survive.”  He ran his fingers through his hair.  “I’m going to get a bath.  I’ll see you two at dinner.”

  


  


Much later, Alistair sank gratefully into the plush chair in front of the fire in his room.  Nobles in Kirkwall were no different from nobles in Denerim:  tedious, pompous, and concerned about all the wrong things.  He had spent his dinner surrounded by men and women who plied him with questions about Ferelden’s survival of the Blight, feigning concern for their poor, “rustic” neighbors to the south.  It became clear that their agenda was to encourage him to take the remaining Ferelden refugees in their city home with him.  After all, Kirkwall had welcomed them and succored them in their time of need, and now it was Ferelden’s responsibility to remove the refugees from the streets of Lowtown and Darktown.

  


He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair, grateful to be away from the vultures still partying in the hall below.  Not for the first time, he wished that Rielle had never given him the throne.  Give him a sword and some darkspawn to face; it was much more his style than facing aristocrats and their demands.

  


A knock sounded at the door, and Zevran entered without permission, as usual.  He had attended the banquet but remained discreetly against the wall behind Alistair, where he could keep an eye on everyone in the room.  Alistair felt far safer with Zevran at his back than with the entire city guard stationed around the room.

  


The assassin was dressed in the same simple deerskin clothes he had worn at dinner, supple and soft against his darkened skin.  His usual twin daggers were absent from his back, but Alistair was certain that several daggers were concealed in various places in his clothes.  His long, corn silk hair was tied in a loose ponytail by a leather thong with a single feather dangling from it.  His golden eyes seemed to glow in the flicker of the firelight.

  


Alistair stood to face him with a mouth gone suddenly dry.  This was Zevran, a master of seduction, while he… was woefully inexperienced, Rielle being his only real partner in sex.  He disregarded any history with Anora; the woman had endured the act and once pregnant, shunned him.  Until Zevran, he had never even had any thoughts regarding men at all.  As all of this flew through his head, he felt certain that Zevran was going to find that Alistair was disappointing.  _Maker, I feel like a nervous teenager_.

  


Zevran came to stand before him, and Alistair caught a whiff of the spicy oil Zevran sometimes used after bathing.  Zevran cocked his head to one side and wrinkled his eyebrows at Alistair.

  


“You are thinking too much, _amigo_.”

  


“And how do you know what I’m thinking?”  The spicy aromatic oil was intoxicating, and Alistair was having difficulty focusing on Zevran’s words.

  


“You are nervous; that much is clear.”  Zevran’s eyes softened.  “If you do not wish this, Alistair, I will not be offended.”

  


“No!  It’s not that.”  He rubbed his forehead.  “This is… well… new to me.”

  


“I’m aware of that, _mi amigo_.”  Zevran reached up to touch Alistair’s cheek gently.  The snarky assassin was gone and this was the real Zevran, the one he had come to trust.  “You are thinking how different it is with a man, but it is not as different as you think.  Do what your instincts tell you, just as you would with a woman.”  His fingers dropped to trace the rough stubble of Alistair’s jawline.  “Trust me.”  He reached into Alistair’s hair and pulled him into a gentle kiss.

  


Alistair parted his lips, and Zevran’s tongue slipped into his mouth, hot and velvety.  After a moment of intense plundering, Zevran retreated, sucking Alistair’s lower lip between his own.  Alistair responded by delving his fingers into Zevran’s hair and pulling him closer, exploring Zevran’s lips with his tongue.  After a moment, Zevran pulled back and lowered his lips to Alistair’s neck, pulling back on his cropped hair to encourage Alistair to let his head fall back.  Teeth grazed Alistair’s pulse before a hot tongue traced a wet line down to his collarbone.

  


 _Blessed Andraste_.  How long had it been since anyone had touched or kissed him with this kind of desire?  Surely, that was the only explanation for how hardhe was _already_.  His fingers trembled in Zevran’s silky locks as Zevran bit gently at the junction where his neck met his shoulder.  Nervousness gave way to need, and he made no objection when Zevran pulled Alistair’s shirt over his head.

  


The admiration in Zevran’s eyes was unmistakable as he ran his fingers over Alistair’s chest with a feather-light touch.  “Your physique is quite remarkable, _mi amigo_.”  The compliment relaxed him further, and he lowered his face to the top of Zevran’s head, breathing in the pleasant herbal scent of Zevran’s hair.  The Antivan slicked his tongue across a tight nipple and smiled at Alistair’s sharp gasp.  His fingers continued to caress a path down Alistair’s ribs while his tongue swirled slowly around the nipple, finally grazing it with his teeth.  He felt Alistair’s fingers tighten into a fist in his hair and moved his attentions to the other nipple.

  


“No fair,” hissed Alistair.  Zevran heard another intake of breath as he bit down on the hardened nub.  “Why am I the only one with my shirt off?”  When Zevran pulled back to respond, Alistair swiftly slid his hands under the hem of Zevran’s tunic and pulled it up over his head.  The shirt caught behind his back and stuck on his elbows.  With a sudden grin, Alistair pushed Zevran up against the nearby wall, leaving his arms pinned behind his back.

  


Zevran raised an eyebrow.  “Hmm… such aggression.  I think I rather like this side of you, Alistair.”

  


Instead of replying, Alistair pressed against him in a crushing kiss.  The intensity caught Zevran by surprise, and he responded in kind, shifting his pelvis forward and letting Alistair _feel_ the reaction Zevran’s body was having to the sudden passion.  Alistair finally pulled away reluctantly and let his gaze drop to Zevran’s torso.

  


“Your tattoos really are amazing, you know,” he murmured as he lowered his mouth to the beginning of one swirling tattoo and began to trace it with his tongue.  Zevran let his head drop back against the wall, helpless to move with his arms still secured behind his back and Alistair’s hands gripping his hips.  For someone who claimed to be inexperienced, Alistair was doing a stunning job of arousing him.  By the time Alistair’s tongue had traveled down to his navel and then back up to his neck, he was almost shivering.  Amber eyes met hazel ones.

  


“Am I doing alright?”  Ah, _there_ it was.  Alistair was gaining confidence, but there was still a hint of uncertainty there.

  


“Release my arms, _amigo_ , and I will show you how alright it is.”  Alistair grinned impishly and pulled the shirt from Zevran’s arms.  Immediately, Zevran hooked his fingers in the waistband of Alistair’s pants and whirled around, pushing Alistair against the wall instead.  Zevran smiled at him slyly and ran his fingers over the obvious bulge in the front of Alistair’s pants.  Alistair let out a long sigh and closed his eyes in pleasure.  Zevran kissed the hollow of his throat and slowly licked a hot trail down Alistair’s chest and abdomen, until he was kneeling on the floor.  He raised his gaze and locked it with Alistair’s while untying the laces of Alistair’s pants.  Again, he saw a shadow of uncertainty in Alistair’s eyes, that faint fear of breaking a taboo still lurking within.

  


“Relax, _mi amigo_.  Am I moving too fast for you?”  His fingers reached into the open flap of Alistair’s pants and ran lightly over the straining fabric of Alistair’s underclothes.

  


Alistair bit back a moan.  “N-no… it’s just… been so _long_ ….”

  


“Ah… then you definitely need this.”  Zevran gently lowered the underpants, freeing Alistair’s swollen erection and taking a moment to admire the girth of it, the smooth head already glistening.  His mouth watered with the anticipation of tasting Alistair, and his own arousal throbbed at the thought of the sounds he wanted to coax from this man.

  


He wasn’t disappointed.  As his mouth closed over the head of Alistair’s length and his tongue probed the seeping tip, he heard a choked groan from above and a sharp slap as Alistair pressed his palms against the wall to support himself.  He gave the head a soft suck and was rewarded with a whispered “ _Maker_.”  He reached back with his tongue and gently licked along the vein that ran underneath while scraping his fingernails down the backs of Alistair’s thighs.  The man above him shuddered, and he glanced up to see Alistair’s head thrown back, mouth agape as he gasped weakly.  Zevran probed further back with his tongue, licking lightly at the sac and then pulling it forward to explore the tight skin just behind, his hands pushing Alistair’s legs farther apart to obtain better access.

  


Alistair’s length twitched hard, and his hands clenched tightly.  “Zev… I… _please_.”

  


“Yes, Alistair?”  Zevran closed his fingers around Alistair’s shaft and stroked once firmly.

  


“Holy Maker!  Zev, I can’t last long… like this.  It’s been too long….”

  


“And why are you holding back?”  Zevran stroked his member again, flicking his tongue against the head.  “Stop trying to last.  Let it go, Alistair.”

  


“But….”

  


“Do you think this is over once you finish?  I think not.  _Let go_.”  As if to stress his words, Zevran took Alistair’s length into his mouth once again and gave it a strong suck.  He felt the hard twitch against his tongue, and Alistair leaned his head back once again, moaning as he gave in, letting all control loose.  Zevran flicked his tongue against the sensitive ridge beneath, and Alistair thrust his hips forward, unable to hold back any longer.  Having waited exactly for this, Zevran swallowed him to the hilt.

  


Alistair gasped in surprise and shuddered as wet heat surrounded him.  The pressure was building rapidly, and he gripped the back of Zevran’s head.  Zevran pulled back slightly and then swallowed him again, and the rippling muscles of his throat squeezed against Alistair’s length.  With a cry, Alistair arched against the wall, spilling himself into Zevran’s mouth.  Zevran swallowed it greedily, allowing the salty taste to rush across his tongue.  Gently, he milked Alistair’s shaft with soft sucks until the man was completely spent and slumped against the wall with Zevran supporting his hips and thighs.

  


Alistair surfaced from a blissful haze to find Zevran standing once again in front of him, licking his lips with satisfaction.  He pulled Zevran into a lazy kiss, exploring the taste of himself in Zevran’s mouth.  The throbbing bulge in his partner’s pants pressed against his thigh, and Alistair caressed it briefly, enjoying the hitch he heard in Zevran’s breath.

  


“I think I’ve had enough of clothes,” he muttered and began easing Zevran toward the bed while they kissed and yanked at what was left of each other’s clothing.  When the back of Zevran’s thighs struck the bed, Alistair pushed him down upon it and crawled over top of him.  Remembering something Rielle had taught him, he lowered his head and slid his tongue lightly up the edge of Zevran’s ear.  The reaction he received was even better than he could have hoped.  Zevran shivered, biting his lower lip, and Alistair felt his erection spasm against Alistair’s thigh.  Not quite satisfied, Alistair licked his way up to the pointed tip and nibbled at it tenderly.  Ah, that was better; Zevran moaned and thrust up, rubbing his erection against Alistair’s rapidly hardening length.  The sensation was incredible, and Alistair rocked his pelvis forward, seeking more contact between their members.  Silky skin slid smoothly against silky skin, the friction unbearably arousing.

  


  

  1. He raised his head and found Zevran watching him through darkened, half-lidded eyes.
  



  


“Zev?”  It was so difficult to think through all this desire.  “Please… tell me what you want…”  It wasn’t about reciprocation; he truly wanted to pleasure Zevran, wanted to see him in that single moment of ecstatic vulnerability.

  


“There’s a bottle of oil in my pants.  Get it, _mi amigo_.”

  


Unsurprised, Alistair leaned down and after a moment, retrieved the vial from the discarded trousers.  He looked back to Zevran uncertainly.

  


“Do you want me to…?”

  


“You need to prepare me, Alistair.  It’s been… quite a while since I’ve been with a man.  I will tell you how.”  Under Zevran’s guidance, Alistair oiled a finger and slowly pressed it through his partner’s entrance.  He expected Zevran to react with mild pain, but the assassin leaned his head back with a sigh of pleasure.

  


“Yes, like that.  You are doing well, _amigo_.”  He closed his eyes, relaxing as Alistair gently thrust his finger in and out, stretching the tight muscle.  Breathless, Zevran instructed him to use another finger, which made Alistair wince, but Zevran merely groaned and arched into the intrusion.  Curious, Alistair curled his fingers as he moved them back and forth, enjoying the hot silkiness left by the oil.  His index finger moved over a small bump, and for a moment, he was afraid he had hurt Zevran as the Antivan gasped and thrust up, his erection twitching hard.

  


“Zev?”

  


“I had almost forgotten… how _good_ this can be.  Please, _amigo_ , I am ready for you.”

  


By now, Alistair’s own member was achingly swollen from watching Zevran’s response, and he eagerly positioned himself, pushing back gently on Zevran’s sweat-slicked thighs.  They both briefly held their breath as Alistair eased inside and then slid smoothly within until he was completely sheathed in Zevran.

  


“ _Maker_!”  Never had he felt anything quite like the tight heat squeezing him.  Alistair clenched his teeth, fighting not to come too quickly.  Zevran’s head was thrown back, lips parted and body quivering.

  


“ _Santo de Dios_!” he moaned.  Alistair began to move slowly, not wanting to cause Zevran any pain.  His gaze moved down to Zevran’s erection, throbbing and glistening.  He reached down with one thumb, brushed it through the fluid and meeting Zevran’s eyes, placed his thumb in his mouth, licking at the sweetness.  He closed his eyes moaning softly, and sucked the taste of Zevran from his skin.  It was almost too much, and he began to pick up the pace, pressing Zevran’s legs back further.  Zevran grabbed his hips and guided him to change the angle of his thrusts slightly.  He thrust deeper and realized that he must be hitting that _spot_ because Zevran cried out and pulled at the bed sheets.  Pleased, he thrust again and again into that tightness, watching as Zevran writhed beneath him, his erection brushing against Alistair’s stomach and leaving a wet trail.

  


All too quickly, Alistair was reaching his peak again, lost in so much sensation.  He grasped Zevran’s erection and stroked it firmly, determined to witness Zevran’s moment of ecstasy before giving into his own.  He didn’t have long to wait; after a few pulls, Zevran cried out softly and his member swelled in Alistair’s hand, shooting a stream of milky fluid across Zevran’s abdomen.  At the same time, his anal muscles clenched, and Alistair groaned, spending himself deep inside.

  


He almost collapsed, and his arms trembled as he hovered over Zevran struggling to surface from his orgasm.  Zevran relaxed beneath him, and ran his fingers lightly up and down over Alistair’s spine.  Reluctantly, Alistair finally withdrew and fell to his back on the bed beside Zevran.  They lay quietly for several minutes as their hearts slowed and sweat cooled.  Zevran reached for the floor and returned with a cloth, which he used to wipe himself and Alistair.  Satisfied, he lay on his side facing Alistair, who was staring sleepily at the ceiling.

  


“Zev?”

  


“Hmm?”

  


“Do you remember that time we were camping in the Brecilian forest, and you were talking about sex between men with Morrigan?  And I said that it was not possible for it to be as good as sex between a man and a woman?”

  


Zevran chuckled.  “I remember.”  He had been baiting Morrigan, trying to get her riled.  Alistair had been disgusted and asserted that sex between two males was immoral.

  


“I was completely wrong.  I can admit that now.”

  


“And to think that this was just a start, _mi amigo_.  There is so much more to show you, and the night is still young.”  As Alistair turned to look at him with pleased surprise and eyes shadowed with returning arousal, he crawled predatorily on top of Alistair, his slender hands pressing down on broad shoulders as he claimed Alistair’s mouth with his own.

  



	13. Chapter 13

Zevran stood in the shadows cast by the stairs in Viscount’s Keep, watching while Knight Commander Meredith carried on a heated conversation with Alistair and Teagan.  She was beautiful in a regal way, but the way her face was twisting with fury made her look as venomous as a snake.  She was incensed for some reason, but Zevran wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said.  He could see the tension building in Alistair though; the King kept running his fingers roughly through his hair as he always did when he was upset.

 

Movement caught his eye, and he glanced toward the entrance to see Lia Hawke entering the Keep, along with her exotic warrior elf, the mage named Anders, and the dwarf, Varric.  Smiling, he gave them a nod of welcome as they approached.

 

“It is good to see you again, Lady Hawke.  Have you come to watch the show?”  He inclined his head toward Meredith, who was now gesturing wildly while Alistair glared at her with crossed arms.

 

“Is Meredith providing the fireworks?” asked Varric, grinning at the spectacle.

 

“I got a message from King Alistair saying he wished to meet with me,” said Lia.  “Are you with him?”

 

“Sì.  The King has asked for my help in providing protection until we determine who has twice tried to assassinate him.”

 

“I hadn’t heard about the second attempt,” frowned Lia.  “I guess I better go find out what’s going on before Meredith loses control.”  She headed for the angry Knight Commander while the others followed.  Zevran decided to go along in case the argument came to blows.

 

Meredith didn’t even glance at them as they neared.  “If you continue to harbor apostates, then you are a fool.  Do not come crying to me when your country becomes a battlefield washed red in the blood magic of your magi!”

 

“I have come to offer aid to your city, and you accuse me of condoning blood magic?  Excuse me if I happen to be more concerned with possible treachery from Orlais.”  Alistair’s face was turning red.  “Obviously, we aren’t on the same page here.”

 

“The atrocities of the Circle are a greater threat than Orlais, King Alistair.”  Meredith was practically spitting in her contempt.  “Go and chase your fantasies if you must.  If you insist on supporting the magi, do not expect any help from Kirkwall.”  She shot a glare at Hawke and then stalked away with her templar guard.

 

“Well, that went well, didn’t it?”  Alistair rubbed his forehead wearily.

 

“I don’t know,” said Teagan.  “I think you melted that ice around her just a little.”

 

Zevran stepped forward.  “Alistair, may I introduce the Champion of Kirkwall and her fine companions?”

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.  I apologize for Meredith.  She’s not exactly skilled in the art of diplomacy.”

 

“No, killing magi is more her thing,” muttered Anders.

 

Alistair stared at him.  “Haven’t we met somewhere before?”

 

Anders gave a short bow.  “Anders, the former Grey Warden, at your service, Your Majesty.  I was stationed at Amaranthine some years ago.”

 

“Ah, I remember.  You helped Rielle with the darkspawn uprising there, didn’t you?  I’m sorry to find you here in Kirkwall instead of Ferelden.”

 

Anders cleared his throat.  “Things became kind of… complicated there for me.”  He looked away awkwardly.

 

“He decided that two minds are better than one,” offered Varric.

 

Before Anders could retort, Lia quickly redirected the conversation.  “So you sympathize with the magi, Your Majesty?”

 

“Let’s just say I believe in freedom, and the templars can be pretty harsh sometimes.  I almost became one, and I remember the attitudes they had.”

 

“Magi can also be harsh, especially when they are free to do whatever they like,” growled Fenris.  Lia laid her hand on his arm and he looked away, mouth set in a frown.

 

“Is the Circle better in Ferelden?” she asked.

 

“Well, it used to be when Greagoir was in charge, but I hear there’s a new Knight Commander from Orlais in charge now.  It sounds like he shares Meredith’s views.”  Alistair sighed.  “I may have to keep a sharp eye on him.”

 

“I hear Rielle is First Enchanter now?”  Lia could hear the wistfulness in Anders’s voice.

 

“She is, and it sounds like she has her hands full.”  Alistair ran his fingers through his already mussed hair.  “Listen, I came to offer help to Kirkwall, but it doesn’t sound like Meredith wants it.  It sounds like things are pretty on edge here between the templars and the magi.  If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.  I don’t have any power over the Chantry, but I’ll do what I can.  I’d suggest keeping an eye on Orlais.  We have reason to believe they may be up to something, although I have no idea what as of yet.”

 

“Thank you for the warning and the offer of aid, Your Majesty.  You are very kind.”

 

“Kind, maybe.  Politically savvy, no.”  Alistair gave her a nod.  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go check on the men I brought and get ready to head home tomorrow.  It was nice to meet you, Lady Hawke.  I hope we can meet again in a more peaceful time.”

 

Zevran gave Lia a jaunty wink and followed Alistair and Teagan toward the barracks.  Fenris growled at Zevran’s back as the Antivan sauntered away.

 

“I gotta say, Hawke, we meet so many famous people when we’re with you,” said Varric.

 

“Well, the more connections the better, right?  It’s good to know the King of Ferelden is on our side, although I hope it won’t come to the point where we need him,” said Lia.

 

“With Meredith temporarily in charge of Kirkwall, things aren’t likely to improve,” muttered Anders gloomily.

 

“Ah, come on, Blondie.”  Varric clapped him on the back.  “Sounds like you and Justice need a boost.  Let’s get us a drink, shall we?”

 

*****

 

“Come in.”

 

Marjolaine smoothed her black hair and pasted a beguiling smile on her face before entering the room.  Unfortunately, the woman sitting behind the desk was not smiling back.

 

“Sit.”

 

Marjolaine gave a small curtsey before doing so and sat in the hard, straight-backed chair, noting that the other woman reclined in a cushioned burgundy chair, upholstered in velvet.  _She likes to keep her visitors on edge while she relaxes, doesn’t she?_

“I must say, Lady Marjolaine, that I am most disappointed in the results of your mission.  I do believe that our agreement included both the Queen and King of Ferelden, did it not?”

 

“It did.  However if I’m not mistaken, the ultimate goal was to create some chaos in Ferelden, and Queen Anora’s death did that.”

 

The woman across the desk narrowed her eyes.  “Not nearly enough, and now the King has been alerted that his death is being sought and has hired an assassin to protect him.  This assassin thwarted your second attempt.”

 

“You are well-informed.”  Marjolaine kept her tone light to mask her seething anger.  Obviously, she had not been trusted enough to complete the task and spies had been sent to watch her.

 

“I am _always_ well-informed, Marjolaine.  How do you think I got here in the first place?”

 

Marjolaine swallowed and crossed her legs nonchalantly.  “Our plans are going nicely.  We haven’t even had to do anything in Kirkwall to stir things up.  Meredith is managing it all by herself.  Before long, the dam will break and the city will burst with turmoil.”

 

“This is exactly why I intend to leave Meredith alone.  Hopefully, Kirkwall will be slow to find a new leader.  While they mill around like ants without a queen, we will strike.”

 

“Then the Free Marches will be attacked first?”

 

“That will up to our fearless leader, I should think.  Our job is simply to fuel the coming flames, which you were supposed to do in Ferelden.”

 

Marjolaine flushed.  “It was you who suggested that we use the Crows.  It is hardly my fault that they failed; they are supposed to be the best!”

 

“Are you pointing your finger at me, Marjolaine?”  The other woman leaned forward slightly.  “Be careful what you say, my dear.  You selected poorly and you know it.  But it is done now.”  She leaned back and dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand.  “Fortunately, I have not depended solely on your actions.  There is a new Knight Commander in the Ferelden Circle.  I have sent him with very specific instructions.  In no small amount of time, I think we shall see a situation in Ferelden similar to that of Kirkwall.”

 

“The Ferelden Circle will create further chaos.”  Marjolaine nodded with a faint smile.  “A very good idea, indeed.”

 

“The seeds are being sown, my dear, and soon they will sprout.  Orlais will be ready.  In the meantime, I have another job for you.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“The Ferelden Grey Wardens are a possible threat to our plans.  By their own laws, they are not permitted to involve themselves in political matters.  However, I am not sure how they will react if their country is attacked.  Find a way to deter them, Marjolaine.  That shall be your task.  Do not disappoint me again.”

 

“Of course not, Your Grace.”  The other woman gestured dismissively and Marjolaine curtsied before leaving the office.  Divine Justinia V allowed her eyes to rise to the blazing sun symbol painted on the ceiling of her office.  _Soon, the light of Andraste will shine in every corner of Thedas.  With Orlais’ help, we shall make it happen._

 _  
_

_*****_

 

Zevran sat quietly in the corner of the Blooming Rose watching the whores ply their trade.  He had already been approached several times by both men and women, but he politely waved them off.  At one time, he would have taken one upstairs and enjoyed an evening of casual bliss, but not tonight.  He was here on business, and a certain tall warrior with red-gold hair and a bashful smile was of more interest to him anyway.  His pulse quickened as he thought of the previous evening’s activities, and the memory of Alistair’s soft cries echoed in his mind.  He tapped the table with his fingertips impatiently, suddenly anxious to get back to the Keep.

 

The thing that had sprung up between him and Alistair was both exciting and confusing.  One part of him, the part honed by years of Crow training, was screaming at him to back away from the King.  Alistair was not the type of man who took any relationship lightly, and Zevran knew that for Alistair, sex was more than just a physical act.  Indeed, it was this aspect of Alistair that drew Zevran to him like a moth to the flame.  He _liked_ Alistair’s child-like openness and honesty.  He reveled in the furtive, tender gestures Alistair made, such as when Alistair would run his fingers through Zevran’s hair.  He thrilled at Alistair’s aggressive lack of inhibition, once he had grown more comfortable with his own desires.  He was seeing a side of Alistair that he hadn’t known existed, and he wanted more of it _.  I’m growing soft in my older years_ , he thought ruefully.

 

His attention sharpened as the man he had been looking for finally entered the brothel.  He watched with some amusement as the man carefully scanned the room for danger, a habit necessary for people in their profession.  The shrewd eyes lighted on Zevran and the man went still.  For a moment, they both stared penetratingly at each other, and then the man approached with a forced casualness and seated himself across the table from Zevran.

 

“Zevran Arainai.  I had heard that King Alistair was in Kirkwall and I wondered if you were here with him.  Is he upstairs making use of the Blooming Rose’s services?”

 

“Given the Crow’s involvement in two assassination attempts on the King’s life, I don’t feel especially obligated to reveal his whereabouts to you, Master Ignacio.  But no, he is safely ensconced in the Keep.  I had heard you were in town and thought I might find you here.  The Blooming Rose is quite an upscale establishment, no?”

 

“And yet, you are not partaking of the services.”  Ignacio leaned forward on his elbows.  “Why are you in Ferelden, Zevran?  You are the best assassin we have seen in many years.  Say the word and I can make you a Master of your own cell.”

 

Zevran raised an eyebrow.  “The Crows tried repeatedly to kill me after I returned to Antiva, or have you forgotten that?”

 

“And they failed.”  Ignacio shook his head.  “I warned them that they were being foolish but they have their pride, and they couldn’t let you go.”

 

Zevran smiled slowly.  “And they died for it.”

 

“They learned their mistake.  I think you’ll find that there are more than a few Masters who realize your potential.  Return to us and lead your own cell.”

 

Zevran regarded him for a moment in silence.  “I will think upon it but for now, I am employed by the Ferelden King.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Do you care to explain why the Guild is trying to kill my client?”

 

Ignacio sat back in his chair.  “And that is why you’re here, of course.  You wish to gain information from me.  You know the Guild’s policy, Zevran.  Our clients’ privacy is of utmost importance.”

 

“My client’s life is of utmost importance.”  Zevran bared his teeth in a poisonous leer.  “Surely, I do not have to pay a visit to the Guild to get an answer?”

 

Ignacio sighed.  “We have no desire to enter anymore battles with you, Zevran.  I can tell you this:  the Guild is no longer accepting any contracts on Alistair’s life, and any current contracts have been ended.  The cells involved in the assassination attempts were not sanctioned by the Guild, and I think they have learned their lesson.  Alistair has nothing further to fear from the Crows.”

 

“And you will not reveal the name of the bard who hired them?”

 

Ignacio looked at him sharply.  “Obviously, you already know more than you should.  No, Zevran, I will not reveal any names to you.  Such an act would make my life forfeit.  I will tell you this, since you already know a bard was involved:  beware of Orlais, Zevran.  The Crows have not determined what they are up to, but there are more people involved in this than just the bards.  I suspect Alistair may have more to worry about than his life.”

 

“We already knew that, but I appreciate the warning.”

 

“Alistair earned our respect during the Blight.  There will be no more attempts on his life from the Guild.  There is little more I can do than that, I’m afraid.”

 

“It will suffice.”  Zevran stood and tossed a few coins on the table for the waitress.  “I enjoyed our little talk, Master Ignacio, and I appreciate your warning.  Tell the Guild that they need not worry about any retaliation from me.”  He gave Ignacio a nod and strolled leisurely back out into the night.  Ignacio sighed as he watched him go.  _He would have made an excellent Crow Master.  I pity anyone who makes an enemy of him._

 _  
_

_*****_

Alistair slumped in the tub, letting the hot water soothe his troubled mind.  It seemed his visit to Kirkwall had been for nothing; the contentious Knight Commander was clearly unwilling to form any kind of alliance with Ferelden.  This had been his true purpose, of course, although he had presented it in the form of aid to a recovering Kirkwall.  Orlais weighed heavily in his thoughts, and he had hoped to form a friendship with the Free Marches in case he needed support in the near future.  He could only hope that his contact with the Champion would bear some fruit.  She had seemed quite reasonable and clearly held some sway in this city.

 

He heard the door open and glanced over to see Zevran removing his weapons and hanging them on a rack on the wall.  A throb of desire pulsed low in his groin.  He had not been sure if Zevran would come to him tonight, but he had hoped.  Whatever it was that had formed between them, he could not deny that he wished for it to continue.

 

Zevran sauntered over and sat on the edge of the tub, his eyes deliberately raking over Alistair’s submerged body.

 

“Now _this_ is a lovely sight to come home to.”

 

Alistair flushed but his breath hitched at the sound of Zevran’s low, velvety tone.

 

“Where did you go?  You disappeared after dinner.”

 

“I received word that Master Ignacio is in town and decided that it might be a good idea to remind him that I do not like attempts made on the lives of those I protect.”

 

“And his reply?”

 

“The Crows will no longer be a threat to you or your son.  I have Ignacio’s word on this.”

 

“And what of the bard who hired them?”

 

“He refused to give me the bard’s name, but I expected this.  He was kind enough to reveal that Orlais had a hand in it, however.  He said to tell you to keep an eye on them.”

 

Alistair sighed.  “I already suspected that.  I wish I knew if the Empress is behind this or someone else.”

 

“I suspect that we shall discover that in due time, _mi amigo_.”  Zevran stood and began to strip his clothes.  “In the meantime, I hope you won’t mind if I join you in your bath?”

 

Heart racing, Alistair attempted to sound casual.  “Of course not.”  He scooted back to make room and when Zevran started to sit, he reached up to pull Zevran in front of him with his back against Alistair’s chest.  Zevran released a sigh of pleasure and leaned his head against Alistair’s shoulder.  His hair tickled as it brushed against Alistair’s skin, and Alistair gently began to undo the braids, letting the soft strands play through his fingers.

 

“I was thinking that it needs to be cut shorter.”  Zevran smiled to himself, knowing full well that Alistair had a certain fascination with his hair.

 

“Don’t.”  Alistair carded his fingers through the silky locks, allowing his thumb to brush against Zevran’s ear.  Lowering his head, he slid his tongue along the shell of one ear while his thumb continued to stroke the other one.  Zevran made a small sound and shivered.  Alistair glanced down and was pleased to see Zevran’s length beginning to swell.  _I may be unskilled as of yet, but at least I can make him react_.  Zevran reached back in an attempt to stroke Alistair’s hip, but his hand was slapped away _._

“Don’t worry about me, Zev.  Just relax.”  Surprised, Zevran withdrew his hand and closed his eyes, letting the pleasure of Alistair’s tongue against his ear build the heat inside him.  It wasn’t the first time he had received without giving back, but never had it been done without calculation, without some goal in mind.  To be pleasured like this simply for the fact that Alistair _wanted to_ was foreign to Zevran.

 

Alistair’s fingers ghosted over Zevran’s hip and his calloused palm circled around Zevran’s erection.  His tongue dipped inside Zevran’s ear and then lowered to take the earlobe in his teeth.  Zevran gasped, bucking up into Alistair’s fist.  He struggled to remain still in the other man’s arms, but his ears were too sensitive and Alistair was proving _very_ effective with his tongue.  They fell into a rhythm of sorts, Alistair biting and licking first one ear and then the other while stroking Zevran’s length slowly.  The assassin could not hold back for long and began to thrust up, moaning each time Alistair brushed his thumb over the head.  The water rippled around them, lapping sensuously against skin that felt raw with need.

 

“I love seeing you like this,” murmured Alistair softly into his ear.  Zevran’s eyes snapped open, surprised by the admission, and the words sent a strong surge of pleasure straight to his core.  Arching back against Alistair’s chest, he felt his erection swell and with a soft groan, he spent himself into the water.  Alistair did not relent but continued milking him until every last shudder and spasm ebbed away, leaving Zevran drained and weak.

 

He surfaced to feel Alistair’s cheek resting against the top of his head and a very hard appendage poking into his lower back.  Feeling unusually tender, he turned slowly to face the other man, straddling Alistair’s legs.  Their lips met gently, tongues slowly exploring each other’s mouth.  Alistair moaned softly as Zevran thrust his pelvis forward, grinding against the other man’s erection.  Smiling slyly, he pulled away and stood up in the water.

 

“I think we need to take this to the bed, _querido_ , hmm?”

 

“I agree.”  They dried each other off with much caressing and slow kisses before moving to the bed, towels left carelessly on the floor.  The forgotten bath grew cold as attentions moved elsewhere, the quiet sounds of splashes replaced by urgent cries and soft whispers.

 

*****

 

Nathaniel had always been a light sleeper.  Lately he had been sleeping even less, unable to get the faces of the men he had lost in the Deep Roads out of his mind.  He woke shortly before dawn in a cold sweat, the growls of darkspawn still ringing in his ears.  Knowing that any more sleep would be impossible, he rose and dressed for the day.  It was too early for anyone to be in the kitchen yet, so he made his way outside the Tower and into the templar training yard.  He passed several guards who gave him respectful nods, but their hard eyes followed him carefully.  _Way too much tension on this island._

He was surprised to find that he was not alone in the yard.  Leliana stood in the archery range, dressed in full leather armor and armed with an elegant dragonthorn longbow.  He watched for a few minutes as she loosed arrow after arrow at the distant practice target.  She made quite an alluring figure with her red hair pinned up in braids, and the leather armor clung attractively to her shapely curves.  She finally noticed his attentions and waved him over with a welcoming smile.

 

“I guess I’m not the only one who rises earlier than the sun,” she greeted.

 

“I don’t sleep much,” he replied.  “Your skill with a bow is remarkable, my Lady.”

 

“Leliana, remember?  And thank you.  I believe we had agreed to hold a contest some time ago?”  She grinned at him mischievously.

 

“Yes, I believe we did.”  Smiling, he pulled his own heartwood longbow from his back.  “And what shall the prize be?”

 

She gave him a coy look.  “If I win, I want an evening together.”

 

He raised his eyebrows.  “With me?”

 

“Of course with you, Nathaniel Howe.  You did say that you don’t have a woman, so I assume you’re fair game.  Unless your preference is for men?”

 

“No, I do prefer women,” he assured her.  “But women don’t usually prefer me.  I’m a Howe, remember?”

 

She gave him an exasperated look.  “I know your name, Nathaniel, and I don’t care that you’re Rendon’s son.  No more excuses, please.  Now what would you like if you win?”

 

He returned her gaze with a probing look.  “If I win, I would like a kiss.  Is that too forward for me to ask?”

 

 _Maker, no_.  “Of course not.  The best of three shots?”

 

He nodded.  “You may have the first shot, Leliana.”  She loved the way her name sounded in that gravelly voice.

 

Smiling, she aimed and loosed the first arrow, which landed easily in the center circle.  He stepped up and took his first shot, also landing in the center of the target.  She grinned and moved to the second target, which was a greater distance.  Again, they both scored the center circle.  The last target was quite a distance away, and they both had to squint to make out the colored rings.  Leliana aimed carefully and let the arrow fly gracefully into the center ring.  Nathaniel smiled and stepped up, lifting the bow and taking an easy stance.  She admired the sculpted muscles in his arms as he drew the string, eyes narrowing as he sighted down the field.  With a soft hiss, the arrow loosed and sailed through the air to land embedded through the feathers of her arrow.  Unable to restrain her enthusiasm, she clapped, laughing.

 

“Oh, that was marvelous.  You are absolutely amazing with a bow!”

 

“As are you, my… Leliana.  It seems we have achieved a tie.”

 

“Nope.  You clearly won by slicing right through my arrow.  Well done.  I obviously need to practice more!”  Still chuckling, she set the bow aside and moved to stand in front of him.  “You earned your prize.”

 

Nathaniel’s gray eyes were almost mesmerizing as he gazed into hers intently.  The hardness in his face softened as he lowered his head and pressed his lips against her soft, willing mouth.  She gasped as his hands suddenly buried themselves in her hair, and he pulled her roughly against him as his tongue pushed its way between her lips.  He devoured her hungrily, as if she were the last woman in the world, his teeth biting at her lower lip greedily.  She moaned as a flush of heat surged through her body, and she clung to him as he ravished her mouth _.  Chantry or no Chantry, I **want** this man_.

 

Abruptly, he pulled away, stepping back and shaking his head as if to clear it.

 

“Leliana… I apologize.  It’s been… a very long time since I’ve been with a woman and I have a tendency to be a bit… rough.”  He stared at the ground, looking mortified and angry with himself.

 

“Nate, no…”  She laid her hand against his cheek and turned his face to hers.  “You weren’t too rough.  I _liked_ your intensity.  Please don’t apologize.”

 

His eyes searched hers for truth and she felt him relax.  A shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  “I think I tend to scare women off, so I’m glad you didn’t mind.”  He reached down and took her hand in his.  “Would you care to join me for breakfast?  I promise to behave and eat the food instead of you.”

 

She laughed, flushing with pleasure.  “I would love to join you, Nathaniel.  And if your prize is always a kiss, I’ll be happy to let you win every contest.”  The two of them left the field with their fingers entwined and headed back to the looming Tower, following the enticing scent of eggs, bacon, and pastries.


	14. Chapter 14

Rielle looked up and smiled at Leliana as the redhead slid into the First Enchanter’s office and seated herself in the chair in front of Rielle’s desk.

 

“Taking a break from Nate, Leli?”  Rielle leaned back in her chair, smirking.  Leliana returned the smile blissfully, a dreamy look filling her eyes.

 

“He’s so sexy, Rielle.”  Her face turned down into a pout.  “Why does the Chantry have to frown on relationships between men and the servants of Andraste?  I shouldn’t have to choose between the Maker and Nate!”

 

Rielle chuckled.  “I don’t know what the Maker looks like, but he may have some competition from Nathaniel.”  She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk.  “Do you really enjoy being a Seeker so much?  I have to say Leli, you and Nate have looked very happy together the last few days.  It really warms my heart to see him smile at last; he used to be _so_ broody.”

 

“Well, he _is_ kind of serious, but I love that intense look he wears all the time.  Those gray eyes just make me shiver!  And that goatee….”

 

Rielle laughed and waved her hands in surrender.  “You don’t need to convince me!  I know what the Chantry means to you, Leli, but maybe a life with Nathaniel would be just as rewarding.”

 

Leliana gazed sadly towards the azure sky peeping through the thin slit of a window.  “To be honest, the Chantry isn’t what I hoped it would be.  From the outside, it seems so pure, so inspiring.  But once you get inside past the marble statues, the oiled, oaken pews, and the velvet curtains, you see the sweetness of Andraste slowly rotting away like overripe fruit.  For every truth and fervent supplication, there’s corruption and lies to match.  That’s what the Seekers are supposed to be for:  to root out the evil within.  But the more I try to uncover, the more shocked I am at what still lies hidden.”

 

Rielle stared down at the mess of papers on her desk.  Her history in the Circle had soured her outlook on the Chantry long ago, but she had always respected Leliana’s devotion to the Maker.  What Leliana had observed of the Chantry’s duplicity didn’t surprise her in the least, but she was still disheartened to hear of it.

 

“You and I have never seen eye to eye on the Chantry’s interpretation of Andraste’s message, Leli, but I’m sorry to see you so disillusioned.  If there’s anything I can….”

 

Rielle’s voice faltered as her office door slammed open to admit a wild-eyed, red-haired mage gasping for breath.

 

“Rielle!  Please… you must come!  They are taking Connor!”

 

Rielle stood swiftly, her eyes immediately alert, hands automatically reaching for her staff leaning against the wall.  “What do you mean?  Who’s taking him?”

 

“The templars!  The Knight Commander claims he has been using blood magic!”

 

“What in the name of the Maker…?  Blood magic?  Take me to them quickly!”

 

The two magi flew down the hall and up the stairs with Leliana close behind.  In the Great Hall, they found Connor struggling within a small group of templars who were trying to shackle him.  Several enraged magi were watching helplessly, held back by templars with swords drawn, barring their way.  Lutherain stood by emotionlessly, watching as the templars threw Connor to the floor.  Before Rielle could speak, a brilliant flash of light illuminated the hall and Connor cried out, collapsing boneless to the stones.

 

Furious, Rielle approached the templars, brandishing her staff.  “Enough!  What goes on here?”

 

Lutherain regarded her coolly.  “I suggest you lower your weapon, First Enchanter, unless you also wish to feel the Smite?”

 

Rage sent shivers through Rielle’s slight form.  “I will _not_ put away my staff until you explain why you are attacking one of my people!”

 

“Then perhaps we shall discuss this after you have been disarmed and calmed down.”  The Knight Commander raised his hand toward Rielle, but before he could call his power upon her, an arrow hissed through the air only a hand’s width from his arm.  Startled, Lutherain took a step back as Nathaniel emerged from the shadows, still bearing his bow.

 

“The First Enchanter asked you a valid question.  I suggest you answer it instead of threatening her.”  Leliana looked to him gratefully while subtly reaching into her tunic pocket for the dagger she kept hidden there.

 

Lutherain glared at Nathaniel, the cool mask dissolving into fury.  “You have no rights here, Warden Commander.  This tower is under my command.  If you must know, the mage, Connor, has been using blood magic and therefore must be apprehended.”

 

“And what evidence do you have of this?” demanded Rielle.

 

Lutherain smirked.  “One of your own people, an apprentice, informed me that Connor has been entering the Fade and influencing the thoughts of other magi in this Tower.  We both know, First Enchanter, that a mage cannot enter the Fade without the use of specially prepared lyrium, which Connor does not have access to.”

 

Rielle ground her teeth in frustration.  Over the past few days, she had allowed Connor to continue his experiments with the red lyrium under her supervision.  They had both selected a few experienced magi and included them in the circle of secrecy regarding Connor’s new ability.  Connor had attempted to communicate with the new recruits while they were dreaming and had met with exciting success.  As he continued to practice, his control over the lyrium grew and allowed him to remain in the Fade for longer periods of time with no ill effects.  The outlook was indeed promising, and Rielle, Dagna, and Connor shared high hopes that others could be taught how to communicate over long distances via the Fade.  The ramifications of such a talent were astounding.

 

Obviously, one of the Tower magi disagreed and had gone to Lutherain.  None of the apprentices had been included in the experiment, so one of them must have discovered what Connor was doing, although clearly not _how_ he was doing it.  The Knight Commander, of course, jumped to the conclusion that it must be blood magic.  Rielle did not think it would be prudent to inform Lutherain of the red lyrium.  _Who knows what the Chantry would do with such power_?  Leliana had agreed to withhold the information from the Divine for the present.

 

The Seeker now stepped forward to confront Lutherain.  “I have been here for several days now, Knight Commander, and I have witnessed no blood magic.”

 

Lutherain gazed at her with contempt.  “And how would you know the signs of blood magic, my Lady?  I hardly think being an Orlesian entitles you to the wisdom of the Chantry.”

 

Leliana reached into her tunic and withdrew a golden medallion in the shape of the Chantry sun symbol with an eye in the middle.  “You are correct.  Being an Orlesian does not give me authority, but being a Seeker does.”

 

Lutherain’s eyes widened in shock.  Immediately, he gave her a short bow.  “Forgive me, Seeker.  I had no idea.  You should have informed me of your status.”

 

“I owe you no such courtesy unless I deem it necessary,” said Leliana coldly.  “I am not pleased with what I am seeing here, Knight Commander.  I suggest we retire to your office to discuss this privately.”

 

“Of course, my Lady.”  Lutherain turned to the other templars and motioned to Connor, who remained unconscious on the floor.  “Take him to the cells in the basement until I finish talking to the Seeker.”

 

“Gently, please,” said Leliana with an unmistakable warning in her voice.  The templars lifted Connor carefully and removed him from the hall.  Leliana gave Rielle a reassuring nod and followed Lutherain out of the room.  Rielle stared after them as the magi dispersed reluctantly.  Nathaniel rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it.

 

“It will be all right, Rielle.  Leliana will take care of it.”

 

“Thank you Nate for what you did.”  She looked up at him gratefully.  “You shouldn’t have; Lutherain won’t forget that a Warden interfered.”

 

“Let that be my problem.  I won’t stand by and tolerate injustice.”  He took her hand and pulled her to the doorway.  “Come.  Let’s go talk to the magi.  They will need reassurance; they are probably afraid.”

 

Rielle straightened and lifted her shoulders resolutely.  “You’re right, they will be.  I’ll go and tell them not to worry.”

 

#####

 

Lutherain stood in his office with his arms crossed, glaring at Leliana.

 

“Why did you not inform me when you came that you were a Seeker?”

 

“We are not required to announce our presence, Knight Commander.  Indeed, it often goes against our assignment to do so.”  Leliana kept her voice cold, but her heart was beating rapidly.

 

“And may I inquire as to what your assignment here is?  I had assumed that you were a companion of the Warden Commander.”

 

“My mission comes from the Divine herself and doesn’t require your participation.”  _Just keep bluffing, Leliana, and pray._

The Knight Commander pressed his hands down on the desk and leaned forward.  “My presence here and my mission also come from the Divine, my Lady.  It may well be that our goals are one and the same.”

 

 _I highly doubt that_.  “Very well.  I was asked to visit the Circles in both Kirkwall and Ferelden to observe the state of the relationship between the magi and templar.”

 

The tension in Lutherain’s face eased, and he straightened with a faint smile.  “Ah, then she told you her plan?  I can assure you that I have been fulfilling her wishes.  I have had to approach things carefully, of course, but as you saw for yourself, things are going quite nicely.  We really _did_ have an apprentice accuse the boy of blood magic; I didn’t have to do anything to instigate the incident.”

 

 _What in the name of the Maker is he talking about_?  “So he is part of your mission?”

 

“He wasn’t intended to be, but it plays so well into our plans, doesn’t it?  When the other templars hear of it, they will naturally begin to turn against the magi out of fear.  Before long, the templar and the magi will be at each others’ throats.”

 _Just like the Circle in_ _Kirkwall_ _.  Blessed Andraste, the Divine is behind this_?  Leliana shivered as an icy fear crawled up her spine.  She desperately needed to get out of here and think about this.  “So the boy will be the beginning of things, but what happens to him now?”

 

Lutherain narrowed his eyes as a cruel smile lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Well, the punishment for blood magic is death, but I think Tranquility would teach the magi a better lesson don’t you think?  I have the necessary potions ready, and we shall perform the ritual first thing tomorrow morning.”

 

#####

 

Rielle paced back and forth in her office, followed by her shadow which was elongated by the flickering torch set in the wall.  Nathaniel watched her calmly from his chair, idly twirling a dagger between his fingers.

 

“Maker, Rielle, at least sit down and rest.  We’ve done all we can at the moment.  Leliana will take care of it.”

 

Rielle paused to rest her forehead against the cold stone wall.  “What if she can’t?  Lutherain will kill Connor, Nate.  It’s what they _do_ to blood magi.”

 

“You said yourself he’s not a blood mage.”

 

She whirled to face him.  “An apprentice, one of his people, has accused him of it!  We know who Lutherain will believe.”

 

“Is Connor really entering the Fade without a lyrium potion?”

 

Rielle slumped in the chair across the desk from him.  “I should never have allowed him to experiment any further with that red lyrium….”

 

“What?”  Nathaniel leaned forward, eyes narrowing.  “He’s actually using it?”

 

“He snuck into my office and used it without my permission.  I’ve only allowed him to continue when I’m there to supervise him.”  She looked at him with pleading eyes.  “Nate, he can do things with it, magic we thought was lost to the past!  Not only can he enter the Fade, he can communicate with other magi through their dreams.”

 

Nathaniel ran a hand over his face.  “Communicate or control?”

 

“Stop it!”  Rielle glared at him.  “You sound like Lutherain.”

 

“That lyrium isn’t a toy, Rielle.  Can he control another mage?”

 

“Of course not!”  She shook her head wearily.  “I trust Connor, Nate.  He’s being careful, and I’m keeping an eye on him.  No one’s been harmed, and the magi who have participated are excited about the discovery.”

 

“I doubt Lutherain will share in your joy.”  Before Rielle could retort, he held up a hand in surrender.  “Look, I’m on your side, okay?  I’m just saying how it must look to an apprentice and how it will look to a templar.”

 

“I know.”  She sighed.  “He doesn’t deserve to be killed, Nate.  I won’t allow it.”

 

“I understand, Rielle.  I’ll help in any way I can.”

 

“Thank you.”  She laid her hand on his.  “I’m so glad you and Leliana are here.”

 

Before more could be said, the door opened and Leliana walked in, closing it behind her.  Her face was drawn and serious, and the hopeful look from Rielle faded.

 

“Leli?”  _Oh Maker, I know You may not like magi, but he’s so young…._

Leliana slumped against the wall, staring listlessly out the window.  “Rielle, I’m so sorry… I tried….”

 

“They will kill him then?”  Grief choked her throat and the last word came out as a squeak.

 

Leliana’s face hardened in anger.  “No.  They will make him Tranquil, as a lesson to the other magi.”

 

“When?” asked Nathaniel, reaching out a comforting hand to touch Rielle’s.

 

“Tomorrow morning.”  Leliana closed her eyes and pressed her forehead into the stone.  “I’ve been such a fool.  I believed in her….”

 

Nathaniel stood and pulled Leliana into his arms.  “Who?  What are you talking about?”

 

“The Divine.  She has a plan… to make trouble in the Circle.”  Rielle looked up sharply as Leliana told them what Lutherain had said.  By the time the Seeker was finished, Rielle was clenching her fists in fury.

 

“So she _wants_ the templars and magi to turn against each other?  For what purpose?”

 

“I don’t know,” Leliana said miserably.  “I had to pretend that I knew about the plan.  I’m not sure what Lutherain would have done if he knew the Divine hadn’t included me in her schemes.”  Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile.  “To be honest, I’m glad she didn’t.  I want no part in creating enmity here.”

 

Rielle took a deep breath to calm herself.  “I will not stand by and allow Connor to be made Tranquil.  Even if I must pay the cost, I will stop it.”

 

“Isn’t his father the seneschal?” asked Nathaniel.

 

Rielle nodded slowly, a look of excitement growing in her eyes.  “Yes, and that gives me an idea.  I will get Connor out of here… tonight.  We’ll go to Denerim as quickly as possible and tell the seneschal and Alistair what is going on.  If anyone in Ferelden can stop this madness, they can.”

 

Leliana pulled away from Nathaniel’s arms.  “You’re going to need help, Rielle.”

 

“No, Leli.  I won’t involve you; it will ruin your position in the Chantry.”

 

The Seeker reached slowly for the medallion resting on her chest and in one swift movement, jerked it over her head.  She stared down at it for a moment sadly and then tossed it into the corner of the room.  “What position?  I want no part in an organization that delights in evil.”  She gave Rielle a gleeful grin.  “It will be like old times!  Sneaking around on a quest and causing mayhem.  I love it already!”

 

Rielle couldn’t hold back a chuckle.  “Well, instead of darkspawn we have templars, but there’s not much difference is there?”

 

“So we break out Connor then?”  Nathaniel stroked his goatee thoughtfully.

 

Rielle gave him a stern look.  “No, Nathaniel.  The Warden Commander can’t involve himself in this.  It will cause trouble, and you know it.”

 

Nathaniel gazed back at her levelly.  “If you think I will stand by and do nothing while people’s rights are taken away, you think wrong.  I make my own choices, and you’re going to need some help if you intend to rescue this boy from the dungeon.”

 

“He’s right, Rielle.”  Leliana placed a grateful hand on Nathaniel’s arm.  “You can’t go down there; any magic you use will alert the templars and they will smite you.  Nathaniel and I should go get him out while you make ready to leave.”

 

“I am _not_ going to pack bags while you both put your lives in danger for my people!”

 

“Gather your senior magi or whoever you trust,” said Nathaniel.  “If you’re going to leave, they need to be able to handle things until you return.”

 

“Maker,” said Rielle, “Lutherain may act against the magi in revenge for Connor’s escape.”

 

“Hopefully, he will have enough sense to refrain from doing anything drastic.  Describe the layout of the dungeon to us.”  Nathaniel reached for a parchment and quill while the two women joined him at the desk.  Rielle sketched a rough diagram of the Tower basement and informed them of the locations of the templar guards.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t have a key.  Only the Knight Commander will have that.”

 

“I still have the locksmith’s tools you gave me, Rielle,” said Nathaniel.  “If my skills fail, I’m sure we can count on Leliana to save the day.”

 

“I even have a few poisons and grenades handy.”  Leliana grinned as she jiggled the pouch at her belt.  At Nathaniel and Rielle’s surprised expressions, she shrugged.  “Even a Seeker needs to be prepared for anything!”

 

“So we wait until well after curfew and then make our way to the basement,” said Nathaniel.  “Leliana and I will retire to our rooms now so that the templars will think we have gone to bed.”

 

“I’ll go talk to a few of the senior enchanters,” said Rielle.  “I’ll leave Petra in charge while I’m gone.  She has the best head for a crisis, and Lutherain seems to have some measure of respect for her.”  She sighed sadly.  “To think we have come to this….”

 

Leliana reached out and gave her an impulsive hug.  “It will be okay.  We’ll get Connor to Denerim, and Alistair will help us.  He would never refuse to help you.”

 

“I abandoned him to Anora, Leli.  He has every right to hate me.”  _Will he even be willing to see me_?

 

“You did what you thought was best for Ferelden.  I’m sure he understands that.”

 

An old memory flashed through Rielle’s mind:  Alistair standing before her at his wedding, his eyes dull and haunted.  She had wished him well, and he had barely even responded.  That very night, she fled the Palace and headed for Amaranthine to take up her post.  _Does he even know how much it hurt me to see him married to Anora?  I did what I had to do, but it tore both of us apart_.

 

Nathaniel took Leliana’s hand and moved toward the door.  “We better go; curfew will start soon.  Rielle, we’ll meet you at the gate once we have Connor.”

 

Rielle gave him a short nod.  Tears glistened in her eyes.  “Thank you both for this.  And the Maker be with us all.”

 

#####

 _Revolutions require only two things:  a stack of tinder, each branch representing a single resentment; and a spark to produce the flame that will set the fire in motion.  The Circle already had its pile of wood; it had been collecting it for years.  It needed only the match that would start a wildfire not seen since the rebellions that drove the Imperium back to the North.  I had no idea that I would become that spark._

 _At the time, I was mostly disgusted with myself for being foolish, as so many men are at that young age.  I had been so wrapped up in my discovery and my growing sense of self-importance that I had become careless.  Certainly, I hadn’t forgotten the ever-present templars, but I had relegated them to the background of my world, and that was a mistake.  My elders would have said that I shouldn’t even have touched the red lyrium in the first place, but if I hadn’t, the world would be a very different place right now.  How can you argue with Fate?_

 _When I woke up in that dank cell in the basement of the Tower, my head was throbbing and my body felt so_ wrong _.  It was the first time I had ever experienced the effects of a Holy Smite, and I certainly hoped to never feel it again.  For a mage, magic is a part of you, both mentally and physically.  Even when you aren’t calling on it, you can sense it just under your skin, like a current of electricity, and in the back of your mind, it lurks like a shadow waiting for the night.  The Smite erases all of that, leaving you strangely bereft, like a significant piece of you has been carved from the mold of your being._

 _I was weak and in despair.  I had heard them accuse me of blood magic before I was knocked unconscious by their power.  If the First Enchanter had been able to convince the Knight Commander of my innocence, I wouldn’t still be here.  She must have failed, and I knew this meant I was facing certain death.  Sitting alone on that cold, damp floor, I began to contemplate what the afterlife could possibly hold for a mage._

 _Knowing my history, I should never have underestimated the Hero of Ferelden.  Over the years, I had forgotten the past identity of the First Enchanter, thinking of her only as my mentor.  I should have realized that she was also my friend._

 _And so it was, that much later in the night, I heard the sound of scuffles and sharp cries that were cut off as swiftly as they sounded.  Unbelieving, I stood and went to the bars separating me from the rest of the dungeon to see two figures making their way stealthily toward me.  I recognized them immediately as Rielle’s friends:  the Warden Commander and the red-haired woman of the Chantry.  The Commander produced a set of lock picks and freed me in less than a minute.  How they had gotten this far without alerting the templars, I had no idea, but they were quite skilled in the talents of rogues._

 _The redhead, Leliana, gave me an unabashed hug and checked me over anxiously for injury, but I assured her that I was fine, although entirely without magic.  I followed them quickly through the dungeon and up the stairs, noting the unconscious templars laying about on the way.  Somehow, it seems important to note that they had not killed a single guard, but had used grenades to knock them out.  We met the First Enchanter and the Warden Commander’s dwarf companion at the gate, and the relief that shone starkly on her face was all I needed to see to know that I never should have doubted her._

 _Courtesy of the Warden Commander’s sleep bombs, we passed the guards at the gate and fled to the dock.  As we were boarding one of the boats, we heard a shout and saw the dwarf, Dagna, rushing after us, a bag slung over her shoulder.  She begged to come with us, and Rielle nearly refused.  Was it a flash of foresight that led me to speak up on her behalf?  I have never claimed to be a seer, but at times I have certainly felt a pull of_ something _, and the choices those pulls have led me toward have never been wrong.  In the end, my urging succeeded, and Rielle relented, much to Dagna’s joy._

 _So it began, with the six of us paddling swiftly across_ _Lake_ _Calenhad_ _while the moon’s soft glow rippled in the water around us.  The tinder had been lit, and the fire would spread first toward Denerim.  I did not know at the time about the impending catastrophe awaiting Kirkwall, but I think now that Fate was weaving its web very carefully indeed, bringing each strand together at just the right moment.  A certain elf that I met later in Denerim remarked to me once that Fate is a quite a tricky whore, and as crude as the insight was, I have to agree._

 _\--_ From the Journals of First Mage Representative, Connor Guerrin __


	15. Chapter 15

Anders eased the creaky door of his clinic shut and shuffled wearily to his cot in the back.  He felt weighted down; even the feathers of his coat drooping over his shoulders seemed far heavier than they should.  He laid his staff against the wall beside the bed and brushed some dirty socks off the sagging canvas.  Gravity pulled at his tired bones, and he sank down on the cot with his head in his hands.

 

 _It is done.  For good or evil, the stage is set._

 

 ** _It’s never been about good or evil, Anders.  Only right and wrong_**.  Justice’s voice whispered at the back of his head, quieter now that the mission had been fulfilled.

 

 _Shouldn’t what’s right be good and what’s wrong be evil_?

 

 ** _It always depends on the situation.  You know this.  There will be those who will say what we have done is good.  Others will say our actions are evil.  Regardless of their opinion, it is right_**.

 

 _Yes, well.  I can only hope that Hawke feels the same way, but I doubt it.  We abused her trust tonight_.

 

 ** _It was for a just reason_**.

 

 _The reason won’t matter… in the end.  But I am ready to accept her judgment.  Are you_?

 

 ** _What do you mean_**?

 

 _What will happen to you when I die, Justice_?

 

 ** _I assume that I will be returned to the Fade_**.

 

 _Then all will end well for **you**_.  Anders couldn’t repress the note of bitterness, and Justice was appropriately silent.

 

Finally alone with his thoughts, he lay back on the cot, too exhausted to even undress.  At some point in the next few days, his wretched life would finally end.  If Hawke didn’t kill him, the templars would.  He rather hoped it would be Hawke, even though he knew she would be hurt by his betrayal.  Death would come more welcome from a friend.

 

He could already feel the guilt building in his gut for the deaths he would cause.  His own demise would be poor payment for the loss of so many.  Justice felt no remorse for what was to come, but he wasn’t mortal and didn’t see death as an end.  To him, all those people would simply be moving on to the next world.  They were worth the sacrifice.  For Anders, the thought made him truly ill, bile rising in his throat as images of people flashed in his mind, screaming as the flames of his justice consumed them.

 

He shut the door on those thoughts before they could drive him to the black pool that was madness.  Instead, he reached back into his memories to a time before Kirkwall.  As much as he refused to return to the Wardens, his time there had been the happiest of his life.  It was at Vigil’s Keep where he had found friends, an adorable cat, and someone who had finally understood the very depths of his soul _.  Rielle_.

 

She was the torch that banished all his darkness.  In the short time they had been together, he had finally known love and all the joy that came with it.  It mattered little that she was the Hero of Ferelden, Warden Commander, and Arlessa of Amaranthine.  He, Anders, was lord over nothing, but she had found him worthy of her attentions.  They shared a mutual passion for mage freedom and spent many a long night dreaming, then loving, and then dreaming again of a brighter future.  It would happen; they would _make_ it happen.

 

All of that changed in one hasty decision, a grasp at fulfillment by a man and a spirit who was stranded where he didn’t belong.  He should have consulted with Rielle first, _of course_ he should have.  But they had both been so _sure_ , so consumed by hope and certainty that they were _right_.  When Justice had entered his body, as his mind felt stretched and pushed aside to make room, there had been a sliver of doubt, a shiver of dread as he felt every inch of his body being invaded and inhabited by another.  Then Justice had settled in and receded into the shadows, and the strangeness of the moment had faded along with the doubt.  They were together now, and two had more power than one.

 

His first priority was to inform Rielle, of course.  He had never intended to leave her in the dark about his new… _companion_.  But then he hadn’t expected to run into those templars on his way back to the Keep either.  They were not from Amaranthine and did not know who he was or his status as Warden.  They saw only a mage, freely walking down the road with no escort in sight.  He might have been able to spare them if only they hadn’t begun to taunt.  Justice was still new to his home inside Anders, still adjusting.  He didn’t know how to be discreet or tolerant.  He saw the templars, heard their insults, and reached into Anders’ memories of the Circle to understand what was happening there.  And then… he simply reacted, taking control of Anders and exacting retribution for every slur, every abuse, every bit of shame that Anders had ever suffered.  When Anders next blinked, they were all dead, literally smeared across the grass and stones.

 

He had sunk to his knees in despair, pleading with Justice.  _Why_?

 

 **Because they were wrong, because of all that they had done against others**.

 

 _But now we cannot go back, we can’t go home.  Rielle,_ oh Maker _, Rielle_ ….

 

There was no question of returning to Vigil’s Keep.  He could not bring this trouble to the Wardens or their Commander.  He had fled to Amaranthine and boarded the first ship leaving the harbor.  As he watched the shores of his home recede into the distance, his heart bled bitter tears of grief.  _My love, I am so sorry_.

 

In spite of the sea that separated them, he had always cherished a secret hope that one day they would be reunited.  Even if she would never forgive him, he could at least explain why he had left.  But time moved on, and Kirkwall’s many injustices consumed him.  Now, he would never have that chance.  Within days, he would be dead, and he could not find it in himself to regret it.  Life had lost its beauty; he was simply too weighed down with his many cares, and the one shining star in his life was lost to him.  He would welcome the coming darkness and the restful sleep it would grant him.

 

And so, as sleep eluded him once again, he spent that night saying goodbye.  For one last time, he would love Rielle as she deserved to be loved, even if it was only in his head.  He undressed her slowly, the mage robes dropping carelessly to the floor.  Her creamy skin flushed with desire as he caressed her with feather-light touches, worshipping every inch of her body.  He felt her fingers twine in his hair as he took a nipple between his lips and swirled his tongue around it, smiling at the soft sigh it elicited from her.  He laid her down on the bed in his mind ever so gently, watching eagerly as her dark, wavy hair spread against the sheets like a fan.  His tongue quested over her thighs while she moaned her pleasure, arching upward as he delved between her moist folds.

 

Ah, even after all this time, he could still remember her taste, so salty and sweet.  And the soft mewling cries she made as he lapped her nub were exactly the same as those in his memories _.  Ah, Rielle, there never was anyone like you and there never will be again_.  Her hands dived into his hair and tugged insistently, begging him wordlessly for more.  How could he resist the desires of his goddess?  Gently, he spread her legs and entered her for the last time.

 

Oh, but he wanted it to last!  So slow was the thrust that she cried out and dragged her nails over his back, attempting to drag him fully into her.  When he was fully seated inside her, they both paused, panting, quivering in that moment of sheer completeness.  He lowered his lips to hers and brushed his tongue across the swell of soft skin there.  Her lips parted eagerly, and he pressed inside, claiming her in a deep kiss as he began to move slowly inside her.  Her legs wrapped possessively around his waist, and he lost himself in the wetness of her mouth, the slickness of her passage.  Time ceased its ever-present plodding as they buried themselves in each other, waves of love and pleasure buoying them in a sea of sensation.

 

When they came, the sea erupted in shades of bright colors swirling around them as the currents brought them slowly back down.  For a time, they lay together, chest against chest, their heartbeats as one.  He stroked her hair and promised his undying love that no darkness could quench.  As he kissed her for the last time, he held her as tightly as he could, imprinting the memory of this last embrace into his mind, that he might carry it with him at the end.  _Goodbye, my love_.

 

As the dawn of a new day broke over Kirkwall, Anders opened his eyes and turned his face into the tear-soaked pillow.  Whatever came now, he was ready.  There would be no more regrets.

 

###

 

Nathaniel sat by the campfire, running a whetstone over his dagger.  They were two days out from Kinloch Hold, and there were no signs of pursuit.  This was the first time he had been comfortable enough to stop for more than a few hours to rest.  Rielle and Connor had withdrawn to her tent after dinner to use the red lyrium in an attempt to contact Petra and see how things were going at the Tower.  Dagna sat huddled by her tent, poring over a large tome that she had brought with her.  Temmerin sat companionably at her side, cleaning his axe.  Both were wrapped in blankets against the cold air of early winter.

 

Leliana had wandered off into the trees an hour ago and had yet to return.  Nathaniel sheathed his dagger and decided to follow her.  She had said she wanted some time to herself to think, but he didn’t like the thought of her being alone in the forest at night.  A full moon shone in the sky, and its soft light filtered down through the leaves to light his path.  He hadn’t traveled far when he heard the gurgling of water and saw the trees thin, opening onto a small clearing with a stream that rippled silver in the moonlight.  In spite of the biting cold, it was a beautiful sight and the stars overhead were reflected in the water, small pinpoints of light shimmering on the surface.

 

He saw Leliana sitting on a large boulder by the stream, her flaming hair the brightest spot of color in the clearing.  Her knees were drawn up under her chin, and her eyes almost seemed to glow as she turned to face him.  He hesitated, unsure if he was welcome, but she smiled and beckoned him over.  He settled himself beside her on the rock, grimacing at the cold seeping through his pants.

 

“I was getting worried about you, but now I can see why you haven’t returned.  This is quite a lovely scene.”

 

She laughed, her voice tinkling through the quiet like wind chimes.  “If it were warmer, it would be a perfect spot for bathing, but that water looks too cold to brave at the moment.”

 

“A pity.  I must say that I wouldn’t mind at all watching you bathe.”  The corner of his mouth quirked, and his eyes made her breath catch.

 

“Hmm.  Maybe we should come back here in the spring then.”  She turned back to the water and rested her chin on her knees.

 

“Leliana, are you okay?”

 

“I’m a little sad, I guess.”  She let out a slow sigh.  “I feel so… betrayed.  Everything I loved about the Chantry:  its pureness, its comfort, its hope; all of it seems so twisted and corrupted now.  It’s nothing like the dream I had so long ago in Lothering.”

 

Nathaniel stared out over the clearing pensively.  “The Chantry began as an idea, a noble one.  Its foundations were pure, but over time, mortals have changed it to suit their desires.  It doesn’t mean that the Maker and Andraste aren’t real.  To be honest, I have never looked for them in the Chantry.  They don’t seem like beings that can be contained by our rules.  Instead, I look for them inside myself.  I guess I hope it’s enough.”

 

Leliana raised her head, her eyes sparkling as she turned to look at him.  “Do you know, I think that is the wisest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about the Chantry?  One would almost think you are a priest, Nathaniel Howe.”

 

“I assure you I have no such religious aspirations,” he laughed.  “I prefer to remain a simple man, with simple hopes.”

 

“Such as?”

 

He slid an arm around her shoulders, encouraging her to rest her head against his arm.  “Such as the thought that perhaps a certain beautiful, red-haired woman might someday look at me in the same way I look at her.”

 

Her smile was astoundingly enchanting.  “She already does.”

 

###

 

When they returned to the camp, they found Rielle and Connor excitedly conversing with Dagna and Temmerin.  Rielle beckoned them over, and they gathered in front of Dagna’s tent.

 

“The magi at the Tower are okay.  Connor talked to Petra in the Fade, and she said that they have given up looking for us.”  Rielle brushed several strands of loose hair from her face.  Nathaniel noted that she looked significantly better now that her worry about the magi was lessened.  “The templars are really tightening up their hold now; all magi have been confined to their rooms and are not allowed to talk to each other.  The templars conduct daily searches of both their rooms and their persons, but at least no one has been harmed.”

 

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Leliana.  “Now we just have to get to Alistair and tell him what’s going on.  I’m sure he will do something.”

 

“Dagna found something interesting in her book,” said Connor.  “Have either of you ever heard of an Eluvian?”  When Nathaniel and Leliana both shook their heads, he went on.  “An Eluvian is a mirror that was created by the elves in the time of Arlathan.  Using magic, the elves were able to use the mirrors to both communicate and teleport.  After the Imperium destroyed Arlathan, the Tevinter magisters attempted to unlock the magic of the Eluvians but were unsuccessful.  They couldn’t determine what magic the elves had used to make the mirrors work.”

 

“Back then, the dwarves would have been living in the primeval thaigs similar to the one you found, Nathaniel,” said Rielle.  “It’s quite possible that they mined the red lyrium and sold it to the elves.  Given Connor’s ability to communicate using the lyrium, perhaps the elves used it to make the Eluvians work.”

 

“Rielle was telling us about the time she spent with the Dalish during the Blight,” said Dagna.  “They told her that they had found an Eluvian and that it had transmitted the darkspawn taint to one of their own.  So we know that Eluvians still exist in the world!”

 

Nathaniel stroked his goatee thoughtfully.  “And why do we wish to find one?  If they transmit the taint, then they are dangerous.”

 

Connor leaned forward, his face tense.  “What if we can make the mirrors work again?  We could use them to transport magi who are in danger… take them someplace safe.”

 

Leliana’s eyes widened.  “So you want to use an Eluvian as an escape portal?”

 

“The time may soon come where we will need such a thing,” said Rielle.  “Anyway, it’s just a thought.  The only Eluvian I have actually seen is one I found when I was searching for Morrigan.  She had discovered it in the Dragonbone Wastes and used it to leave this world.  She destroyed it behind her so that we could not follow, but the pieces are still there. It might not be a bad idea to go back and retrieve the remaining shards.  Dagna thinks it’s possible to recreate the mirror.”

 

“I would certainly love to try!”  Dagna’s eyes shone with excitement.

 

“Well, we can think on it after we get to Denerim,” said Nathaniel.  “If you decide to pursue this, I can accompany you to the Wastes.  They are near Amaranthine, and I need to be getting back to the Keep.  Hopefully, Sigrun and Oghren haven’t killed each other yet.”

 

As they broke up and went to their separate tents for the night, Nathaniel pulled Leliana aside.

 

“Are you feeling better now?”

 

“Yes,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist.  “Thanks to a terribly handsome rogue.”

 

Nathaniel allowed his lips to quirk into a small smile and pressed his mouth against hers.  His tongue plundered her mouth roughly while one hand fisted into her hair.  By the time he pulled away, they were both breathless with desire.

 

“When we get to Denerim, I shall be sure to request a private room with a large bed,” Nathaniel murmured softly, his breath ghosting across her ear.  “I don’t think we will need a fire to keep warm.”

 

She shivered and caressed his hip suggestively.  “I think that would be a wonderful idea.”  They shared a look of longing before finally retreating reluctantly to their respective tents.  Temmerin suppressed a grin as he watched them walk away and took up his post as first watch, the embers of the dying fire warming his hands under the cold light of the moon.

 

###

 

Alistair was intensely grateful to be home.  Kirkwall had left a bitter taste in his mouth, all those murals of anguished slaves still branded in his brain.  Even Denerim with all its mud, dogs, and thieves was preferable to a city full of nobles who turned a blind eye to the filth of Darktown and treated Ferelden refugees like the oily scum that floated on the surface of the harbor water.  It filled his heart with sorrow that his people had been driven to such a place to escape the Blight.

 

Eamon and Duncan had met the returning party at the Palace Gate, and Alistair had leapt from his horse to swing his son into the air with a carefree laugh.  No matter what dark days shadowed his life, Duncan was his pride and joy.  He had never known such unabashed love as that which he shared with his son; even Rielle had not touched his heart in such a way.  But now there was Zevran… and he wasn’t sure where his feelings for the assassin were going yet, but already Zevran had claimed a part of him that no other had.

 

As he lowered the boy to the ground, his eyes turned toward the object of his thoughts.  Zevran had dismounted with his usual grace and smiled as Duncan rushed at him with a yell.

 

“Zev!”

 

“Ah, _mi_ _chico_ has grown taller, yes?”  Zevran ruffled Duncan’s blond hair affectionately.  “Alas, you shall soon surpass my elfish height, and I shall need to look up at you.”

 

“Zev, I can ride a horse now!  I worked hard at it while you were gone.”

 

“That is good to hear.  Perhaps you can show me your newfound talent while your Uncle speaks with your father.”  Alistair smiled at him gratefully and watched as Duncan pulled at Zevran’s hand and led him off to the stable.  He walked with Eamon toward the Palace while the guards took away his horse.

 

“How did your visit go?” asked Eamon.

 

“Not so well,” sighed Alistair.  “The Knight Commander, Meredith, has taken charge of Kirkwall and is singularly focused on the mage problem.  She wouldn’t even discuss anything else.”

 

Eamon pressed his lips together in disappointment.  “That is a shame.  I was sincerely hoping that an alliance could be forged.”

 

“As was I.”  Alistair removed his gauntlets and sword and handed them to a waiting servant.  “I did have a conversation with the Champion of Kirkwall, though.  She’s quite an interesting woman.”

 

“Indeed?  And what power does she wield in Kirkwall?”  Eamon looked at Alistair with an intense scrutiny that made the warrior laugh.

 

“Don’t even think about it, Eamon.  I’m not marrying her.  As of right now, she doesn’t appear to have any authority over Meredith, but she does seem to have influence.  Perhaps we can build on that once things settle down there.”

 

Eamon frowned and narrowed his eyes.  “Alistair, I don’t need to remind you that a well-placed marriage would be of great benefit to Ferelden.”

 

“And I don’t need to remind you that we already discussed this.  You know my feelings on the matter.”  When Eamon opened his mouth to protest, Alistair waved him off.  “Later, Eamon.  I am desperately in need of a bath and a good night’s rest.  We can discuss things further in the morning.”  The seneschal gave a short bow and walked away briskly.

 

Alistair enjoyed a hot bath and small meal in his room before heading to his son’s room to see the boy to bed.  Duncan was happily examining the present that Alistair and Zevran had bought in Kirkwall, a small, intricate ship fitted neatly inside a glass bottle.  Zevran had given it to him before retiring for the evening.

 

“Daddy, I love this boat!  Thank you!”

 

Alistair sat down on the edge of the bed and gave his son a quick hug.  “Someday, we shall take a voyage together on a boat, Duncan.  I promise.”

 

“Can Zevran come too?”

 

Alistair smiled down at him fondly.  “Of course.”

 

Later, he sat by the fireplace in his room, twirling a loose thread from the divan’s fabric around his finger.  It wasn’t until he heard the door open and click quietly shut that he finally relaxed.  He hadn’t been sure if Zevran would come to him here in the Palace, but he had fervently hoped so.

 

Zevran walked over to the fire and sat quietly beside him.  He smelled of sweet herbs and honey, and Alistair wondered where he found such fancy soap in Denerim.  The scent aroused him, and he leaned over to bury his face in Zevran’s silky hair.

 

“How do you always smell so good,” he murmured, reaching up to twist his fingers in the blond locks.  Zevran’s hair was still slightly damp, and the elf had left it hanging freely.

 

“Hmm.”  Zevran leaned his head back against the divan, allowing Alistair access to his neck, and Alistair licked the skin at his pulse greedily.  “There is this wonderful store in Denerim called the Wonders of Thedas….”  He gasped as Alistair pulled back the collar of his tunic and bit Zevran’s shoulder exactly in the spot he knew Zevran found so erotic.

 

“I know of it,” said Alistair, dropping one hand to ghost his fingers over the hardening bulge between Zevran’s thighs.  The assassin shamelessly thrust his hips upward, seeking more contact.  When Alistair pulled away teasingly, Zevran moved swiftly to straddle Alistair’s lap, burying his fingers in the warrior’s hair and running his tongue along the shell of Alistair’s ear.

 

“Zev…” Alistair groaned and reached to grasp Zevran’s tightly muscled rear, pulling him closer.  He couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of this, of how quickly Zevran could have him _begging_ ….

 

“Sì, _mi querido_.”  Zevran rocked his pelvis forward, rubbing their erections together beneath their clothes, causing Alistair to arch his back.  “I must admit that your room here offers certain… advantages.”

 

Alistair slid his hand into Zevran’s pants and stroked one finger into the cleft between Zevran’s buttocks.  “Such as?”  Maker, his voice was ragged _already_.

 

Zevran hummed his approval as Alistair’s finger found the perfect spot to massage.  “No one will hear you when I make you cry out my name.”  With this promise, he covered Alistair’s mouth with his own and for a time, neither of them was aware of anything except each other.  In the end, Alistair did cry out Zevran’s name, more than once, and the rugs on the floor in front of the fire became sticky with their spent seed.  Later, however, it was Zevran who shouted for his lover, Alistair buried deep inside while the elf spilled himself across his stomach.

 

They lay together afterwards, sprawled across the bed, a mess of tangled, sated limbs.  It was the cold that finally drove Zevran to move reluctantly away from Alistair, leaning over the bed to snatch at his small clothes.

 

“Zev?”

 

“Hmm?”  Goose bumps formed on his arms, and he shivered.  Winter in Ferelden was harsh, and it was then that he most missed his Antiva.

 

“Stay with me.  Please?”

 

Surprised, Zevran glanced back at Alistair.  They had never spent the entire night together, both agreeing that discretion was important.

 

“Are you certain that is a good idea?”  He did not wish to cause more trouble for Alistair, and gossip in the Palace was quite rampant.

 

“I don’t care, Zev.  Please stay.”

 

Those hazel eyes and tousled blond hair would be his undoing, as if they weren’t already.  Even so, he couldn’t repress a sigh of contentment as he felt Alistair spoon against him, warm arms chasing the goose bumps away.  He fell asleep faster than he would have imagined, Alistair’s breath caressing the back of his neck.  Outside the window, the first snowflakes of the Ferelden winter began to fall, shimmering like crystal in the light of the moon.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to zevgirl for her awesome proofreading!

_Little is known of the history of the mage, Anders.  We know that Anders was not his true name, but a nickname assigned to him based on his parents’ homeland.  We know from former Circle magi that he was something of a prodigy in the healing arts, that he surpassed even his professors in this school of magic.  We know from his own admission that he escaped the Tower seven times and spent a year in solitary confinement as a result.  We know that on his last escape attempt, he was conscripted by the Hero of Ferelden into the Wardens and assisted her in the destruction of the Mother.  We know from his fellow Wardens that he was a very different man then than the one who eventually appeared in Kirkwall at the side of the Champion._

 _Anders the Warden demonstrated no signs of the revolutionary he would become.  If he wrote any manifestos or sought to establish a mage underground in Ferelden, there is no record or memory of it.  He made no secret of his disdain for the Chantry and the templars, but he took no action during this time.  Nevertheless, the roots of his passion were most certainly sowed in the Circle, and his first taste of freedom among the Wardens must have produced the water that nourished his fervor.  For it was as a Warden that he met Justice._

 _What conversations did Anders have with the Fade spirit that led them to the idea of merging?  At what point did Justice decide to take Anders’s past and create from it a blazing campaign that would consume them both?  Can Justice carry the sole blame for the transformation of Anders the Warden to Anders the Revolutionary?_

 _I have found that there is no ambiguity when it comes to popular opinion on Anders.  Some have called him Savior while others have called him Demon, but few will agree that he could possibly be both, except those who knew the man behind the mage.  For regardless of whatever powers he held and whatever spirit shared his mind, he was a man, first and foremost._

 _\--From the Journals of First Mage Representative, Connor Guerrin_

Lia Hawke strode through Hightown with swift, purpose-driven steps, her staff strapped to her back and her face grim.  Fenris matched her stride with ease, bare feet silent on the cold stone.  Bodahn had been sent to Lowtown to fetch Varric, Isabela, and Merrill.  Hawke was taking no chances this time; Orsino’s letter had sounded ominous enough that she wanted as much backup as she could muster.  Aveline, she knew, would already be at the Chantry hoping to keep the peace.  Anders, she hoped to keep far away from the brewing battle.  Justice’s influence had recently been pushing him to the brink of instability, and seeing Anders transform into a vengeful, glowing apparition would hardly convince Meredith that the magi weren’t practicing blood magic.

 

Unfortunately, Anders seemed to have the nose of a mabari for these conflicts, and she found him waiting in the street before the Chantry, standing amongst the crowd that had formed around the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter.  She noticed fleetingly that his face was pale and drawn, and shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.  Her concern would have to wait, however; Orsino and Meredith appeared to be seconds away from a full-blown melee.

 

She pushed through the crowd as politely as she could, people parting before her at the sight of the Champion.  Fenris followed, his emerald eyes wary and searching the crowd for trouble.  Just as she broke through to stand before Meredith and Orsino, she spotted Aveline approaching with a contingent of city guard.  Several magi and templars stood nearby, eyeing each other with ill-concealed animosity _.  Great.  Just what we need, a curious crowd and battle-ready magi and soldiers just itching for a fight_.

 

“—enough of you harboring blood magi in the Circle!  Are you encouraging them or are you just _blind_ , First Enchanter?”  Meredith jutted her head forward like a bronto tensing for a fight.

 

“For the last time, there are no blood magi in my Circle, Meredith!  Have you gone mad?  Where’s your proof?”  Orsino saw Hawke appear from the crowd and breathed an obvious sigh of relief.  “Champion!  Thank the Maker you are here.  Meredith wants to lock down every mage in the Circle!”

 

Meredith turned to Hawke with eyes narrowed to slits.  “It is for their own protection, as well as ours!  There are maleficar within their ranks and Orsino is hiding them from the templars.”

 

Orsino rubbed his forehead in frustration.  “I hide nothing!”  He turned to Hawke.  “Champion, please.  Come to the Circle and see for yourself.”

 

“You expect me to trust her?”  Meredith gestured furiously at Lia.  “She’s a mage!  How can I expect an unbiased opinion from her?”

 

Angry murmuring could be heard from the crowd, and Aveline stepped forward, chin lifted indignantly.  “I have known Lia Hawke for years.  She would never condone blood magic.  All of Kirkwall knows of her deeds and goodwill.”

 

“Deeds are a wonderful thing, but they prove nothing,” scoffed Meredith.  “I want every mage confined to their rooms until further notice while my men and I search the Gallows.”

 

“I will not allow it!”  Orsino drew his staff and slammed the end of it on the pavement before him.  “For years I have stood by and watched you smear the Circle with your lies.  I demand justice!”

 

Hawke flinched and glanced worriedly at Anders.  His face was hard, lips pressed together in a tight line.  At least his eyes were still brown and not blue.

 

“There is only one fate for maleficar, as decreed by the Chantry!” hissed Meredith.  “Would you fight me, Orisno?”

 

“If I must,” he replied, face suddenly calm.  “However, I propose we take this before the Grand Cleric.  She is your leader, is she not?  Let her decide what must be done.”

 

Meredith stood silently for a moment, glaring at the First Enchanter.  _Please, listen to reason_ , thought Hawke.  _Elthina may be our only hope_.

 

“Very well,” said Meredith and the crowd responded with a collective sigh of relief.

 

“No!”  A shout came from the crowd and Anders pushed his way forward.  “It is too late for that!”  Lia closed her eyes and dropped her forehead into her hand.  _Damn it, Anders.  Let it go_.

 

Meredith and Orsino turned to look at Anders in surprise.  “What are you talking about, mage?” growled Meredith.

 

“The Grand Cleric can no longer stand by and do nothing while the templars commit injustice.  It ends now!”

 

Time slowed as Anders turned and pointed the head of his staff directly at the Chantry.  Even as sudden realization dawned on her, Lia could do nothing but stand frozen, her eyes riveted on the glorious building at the top of the long staircase… the same building she had entered two days ago with Anders.  She had conversed with the Grand Cleric while Anders did… whatever it was he had to do.  _Sweet Maker, I didn’t know…._   And now, just like Anders said, it was too late.

 

The roof blasted up in a blaze of red fire as the pillars snapped like twigs.  A hideous cloud of smoke and debris formed overhead, blossoming like a dark flower.  The courtyard filled with screams as people ran, covering their faces with their arms as pieces of stone and wood rained down from a sky gone mad.  Hawke was knocked off her feet as a blur of tanned skin and white tattoos slammed her to the ground, and Fenris covered her with his body as the world roared around her.

 

It did come to a stop eventually, although Hawke’s heart continued to beat a chaotic rhythm of fear, even amidst the deathly silence that followed the thunder of destruction.  Fenris straightened from his protective crouch above her and reached down to help her stand.  As she brushed the dust and debris from her robes, her eyes scanned the courtyard, taking in her surroundings with disbelief and anxiety.

 

The Chantry was reduced to rubble; only a few pillars remained standing among the shattered walls.  Jagged stones lay strewn everywhere in the courtyard and the streets, as far as the eye could see.  Nearby buildings bore evidence of the tragedy in the smashed walls and torn roofs.  Most civilians had fled, but a few huddled against the ground, shivering and examining their wounds.  Varric was helping Merrill to stand with one hand, while the other cradled Bianca lovingly against his chest.  Isabela was fixing the jaunty kerchief over her hair and muttering under her breath.  Aveline was moving amongst her guard, quietly reassuring her men and checking them for injuries.  Meredith was staring at the remnant of the Chantry with pursed lips and face drawn tight with fury.  Orsino was glaring at Anders, and Anders was….

 

Anders was sitting on a crate, eyes gazing blankly ahead, looking at no one.  He looked so… _small_ , huddled in his ragged, forlorn coat while rocking back and forth in the rhythm of one whose mind has split apart from stress.  _He did this_ _…_ _my friend did this with my help.  I was an accomplice to this_ _…_ _horror.  Oh Maker, what have we done?_

 

Meredith whirled to face Hawke.  “I need no proof now.  A mage did this, one of your companions!  Will you deny it?”  Hawke said nothing; a strange numbness weighed down her limbs and she looked to Orsino helplessly.  “You see?  I was right all along!”  Meredith turned to glare at Orsino.  “Where are your words of defiance now, First Enchanter?”

 

Orsino shook his head desperately.  “He was an apostate!  He acted on his own; I do not condone his actions!”

 

“It no longer matters, Orsino.”  Meredith fixed her piercing gaze on Hawke.  “I go now to ready the templars.  The magi will surrender to us or die.  Will you join me, Champion, or will you defend the magi and their atrocities?”

 

Lia closed her eyes and bowed her head.  _And so it comes to this.  I must choose and end the balance, and once the scale tips, there will be bloodshed.  Is there truly a right or wrong decision here?_  She lifted her head and looked at each of her friends in turn.  _They have all followed me faithfully, and I have led them to this.  What kind of friend am I?_   Her gaze settled last on Fenris, her love and her heart.  Her soul wept for them both, but her eyes never strayed from him as she spoke.

 

“I do not agree with what Anders did, but I will not stand by and allow the magi of the Circle to suffer for one man’s deeds.  If you attack them, know that you also attack the Champion, Meredith.”  Her heart tore in two as she watched the light in Fenris’s eyes dull.  He turned away sharply, hands clenched so hard she could see the tips of his gauntlets digging into his palms.

 

“Then you will die with them,” said Meredith.  She gestured to her templars and they followed her away from the ruined Chantry and toward the Gallows.

 

Hawke turned to Orsino, who was glaring contemptuously at Anders.  “She will gather her men and attack the magi, First Enchanter.  I would advise that you go and inform your people what has happened and prepare them for battle.  I will be there as soon as I can.”

 

“Your assistance is appreciated more than I can ever express, Champion.”  Orsino bowed in respect and then waved his hand disdainfully at Anders.  “I will leave the fool to you to do as you wish.”  He spun on his heel and hurried off down a different street than the one Meredith had taken.  His fellow magi trailed behind, robes billowing in the dusty air.  Hawke hoped that they would be able to reach the Circle before Meredith did.

 

Reluctantly, she approached the crate on which Anders still sat rocking, oblivious to the others around him.  Her heart ached, split between anger and sorrow at what he had done.  Could she have prevented this?  She should have pressed him when he asked for her help, forced him to tell her his plan.  He wouldn’t have told her though; there was no doubt of that.  He had always tried to hide his internal struggles from her, from all of them.

 

“I know what you’re going to say, Hawke, and it’s nothing I haven’t already told myself.”  The sudden sound of his voice in the deathly silence startled her.  “I also know you’re blaming yourself, but you shouldn’t.  None of this is your fault, and I’m truly sorry for involving you as much as I did.  You were the only one I could trust, and I needed help, or I would never have asked.”

 

“You should have told me.”

 

“You would have stopped me.”  Anders continued to rock, arms wrapped around his waist, trapping every emotion inside.  His voice was almost a monotone of practiced recitation.  “It had to be done, you see.  I know that few people will agree with that, and I’m prepared to accept their judgment.  But things could not go on as they were.  What is happening to the magi all across Thedas, it needs to end.  Justice demands it.”

 

“Your Justice or justice in general?”

 

“Both.”  The persistent rocking was beginning to unnerve her.  It was as if Anders had already left his body and left an automaton behind to deal with the aftermath.  “I’m sorry, Hawke, for the hurt I’ve caused you, but I don’t regret what I’ve done.  Do whatever you need to do; I won’t hold it against you.”

 

Her throat was tight, a vise of agony closing off her voice.  Anders was prepared to die, but she was not prepared to give him what he expected.  She turned to face the others standing behind her and spread her hands helplessly.

 

Aveline spoke first, decisive as always.  “No amount of injustice justifies the death of so many people.  He has to suffer the consequences.”

 

Merrill gazed at Anders with wide, sorrowful eyes.  “Let him help us fight the templars.  Give him a chance to redeem himself.”  Hawke had no doubt she was remembering the Keeper’s death, for which she blamed herself.

 

Isabela shrugged.  “It’s your call, Hawke.”

 

“By the Stone, but I’m sick of templars and magi,” muttered Varric.

 

Hawke looked to Fenris last.  He was staring at the ruined remains of the Chantry, his face hard, hands clenching and unclenching.  “Fenris?”

 

The elf swiveled his head to meet her eyes, but no warmth sparked the icy glare.  “He wants to die, so give him his wish.”

 

She bowed her head, her thoughts twisting in her mind like a whirlwind _.  I have dealt out death to so many already with no regrets because I knew that each and every one of them deserved it.  Does Anders deserve it?  Was it him or Justice who did this?_   She rubbed her forehead tiredly.

 

“I have brought this terrible decision to you,” Anders said, softly.  “Allow me to make it easy for you, Hawke.  I deserve to die and you know it.  Please, just do it and be done with it.  I can’t bear the wait.  I never did have much patience, you know.”  He made a choked sound, almost a laugh.

 

It was his last words and even more, that desperate sound of mirth that made her decision.  _That_ was Anders, the Anders she had met so long ago.  Whatever he had done, whatever plans Justice had hatched in his divided mind, he was her friend.  It didn’t excuse what he had done, nothing could, but she wouldn’t be the one to judge him.

 

“Get up, Anders.  If we’re going to fight Meredith and her men, we need all the help we can get.”

 

The words echoed across the courtyard just as a cold breeze drifted through, ruffling the feathers on Anders’s coat as he stood and faced her with eyes glazed from shock.

 

“You want… you want me to come with you?”  His fingers fumbled with his belt, searching for something solid, something _real_ to touch, to remind him that this was not a dream and he was not dead.  Not yet.

 

Hawke went to stand directly before him, her face tilted up to his.  “I don’t know what will happen after this battle, and I can’t make any promises.”  She allowed a soft smile to play across her face.  “But surely, you don’t want to miss your chance to lob fireballs at templars?”

 

Anders closed his eyes and she could see the muscles in his throat working.  When he reopened them, they were alight with a new fire, death swept away by hope and the grace of a second chance.

 

“Not for all the nugs in Orzammar.”

 

She gripped his arm and grinned before finally turning to her companions.  Slowly, she swept her gaze over every face.  Aveline looked grim, her face set in familiar lines of disapproval.  Merrill was smiling and gave Anders a reassuring nod.  Varric reached for Bianca and swung her into his cradling arms.

 

“No matter what, I’m with you, Hawke.  Always have been.”

 

Isabela drew her beloved daggers and began to twirl them with a smirk.  “I always did enjoy _impaling_ men in shiny armor.”

 

Aveline rolled her eyes and sighed.  “I have no idea how we’re going to come out of this one, but I won’t desert a friend.  Count me in, Hawke.”

 

Fenris was still staring at the Chantry and she moved to his side, but he refused to look at her.  She placed her hand on his shoulder but faltered when he flinched away from her touch.

 

“You are pursuing madness,” he said, quietly.  His green eyes closed and he bowed his head, silvery locks falling across his nose.  “My heart burns with fury at what has happened here, and you allow this abomination to live.”  He raised his head to fix her with eyes that bore both sadness and betrayal.  “Yet, I will follow you.”

 

Her tears blurred his face in her vision and she tried again to reach out to him, but he turned away roughly, and her hand fell uselessly to her side.  _Maker, give me another chance to make this up to him later._

She took a deep breath and drew her staff.  “Let’s go, before Meredith has a chance to kill every mage in the Gallows.”

 

###

 

In the end, watching Orsino succumb to blood magic was the one aspect of the battle that gave her nightmares for weeks.  Hawke had admired the First Enchanter and took courage from his determination to defend his people.  To stand by helplessly while he drew his own blood in grief and gave his soul to a demon… it was almost a betrayal.  She had counted on him to stand at her side against Meredith, but in his folly, he yielded to despair and they were forced to destroy the abomination he became.

 

As they made their way through the Gallows, the scene repeated itself all too frequently.  As many magi as they saved, more had turned to blood magic in panic.  _The demons are having a feast today_ , she thought as they battled abomination after abomination.  She was too late to save the magi from themselves, just as she had been too late to save the Chantry.  _I should have seen this coming... I could have prevented all this death_.  _What kind of Champion am I?_   The magi they were able to free followed them solemnly through the blood-spattered halls, their faces drawn in grief as they passed the fallen bodies of their brethren.

 

They reached the exit from the Gallows at last, standing in a weary group at the top of the steps that led down into the courtyard before the great gates.  Below them in the plaza, waited Meredith, Cullen, and their gathered templars, bared swords glinting in the sun.  Meredith's sword glowed red with a strange power that prickled at Hawke’s mind.  _What does that glow remind me of?_   Her friends and the rescued magi arrayed themselves behind her as she descended a few steps toward the Knight Commander.

 

“It doesn’t have to end this way, Meredith.  These magi aren’t responsible for what happened today.”

 

Meredith did not lower her sword.  “All magi turn to blood magic sooner or later, even you, Champion.  None can be trusted and none should be allowed to walk free where they can harm others.”  The crimson illumination of her sword reflected in her eyes, as if a fire burned within.

 

Cullen stepped forward from behind her.  “Knight Commander, I must say that I agree with the Champion here.  We cannot simply slaughter every mage in the Circle due to one apostate’s actions.”  He gave Lia a nod.  “It would seem Lia Hawke has done us a favor by killing all the abominations inside.  Those who are left should not be punished for the sins of the others.”

 

Meredith turned on him, teeth bared in fury.  “There is _no_ mage without sin, Knight Captain Cullen.  I would have thought you had learned that by now.  They must die.  All of them.”

 

“We agreed to arrest the Champion, not kill her.  You are corrupting the Order!”

 

Meredith raised her sword and pointed it directly at Cullen’s chest.  “ _You_ are the one who has been corrupted.”  She shook her head in disapproval.  “My own Knight Captain has turned against me.”

 

A stocky templar parted the crowd and came to stand in front of Meredith.  He removed his helm and gazed first at Lia before turning steely blue eyes to his Commander.

 

“I will not be a part of this.”  Carver tossed his helm to the stones.  “I know magi well; I grew up with three of them.  Not one of them was evil, only aggravating.”  He flicked a rueful grin at Lia, who merely raised her eyebrows in response.  “I won’t stand by and watch innocent people murdered.  If you attack my sister, you attack me as well.”

 

Meredith sneered at him and waved him away with her sword.  “So be it.  Go join the abominations.”  She whirled around to fix the templars with narrowed eyes.  “Anyone else care to desert your duty?”

 

Silence fell over the plaza as the templars shifted nervously, refusing to meet Meredith’s enraged glare.  Finally, Cullen stepped over to where Carver stood, his chin lifted in defiance.

 

“This is wrong, all of it.  Our job is to protect, not to kill needlessly.  You’ve gone too far, Knight Commander, and I won’t condone it.”

 

It was this last assertion, Cullen renouncing his support, that broke something inside Meredith.  In a rage, she raised her sword and pointed it first at Hawke and her followers, then at Carver and Cullen, and finally at the templars backing away from the sheer malicious aura that had sprung up around her.  Her eyes glazed over with haughty self-assurance and a cruel smile curled her lips.

 

“You are all cowards, but I need none of you to fulfill my duty to the Maker and to Kirkwall.”

 

“Hawke, look at the sword,” said Varric.  “Doesn’t that glow remind you of the Deep Roads?”

 

 _Of course_.  “It’s the red lyrium,” Lia said grimly.

 

“Ah, do you recognize it?”  Meredith ran one hand lovingly along the blade.  “I paid a pretty price for this, but it is worthy to bear the flame of Andraste.”  She walked several paces toward the gate before turning around, her face a rigid mask of determination.  “I will finish Andraste’s work here myself.  Prepare to feel the wrath of the Maker!”

 

Pointing the sword at the ground, she drove it into the stone, releasing a shockwave of red lightning that knocked back every person in the square.  As Hawke picked herself up from the steps, one of the great golden statues in the courtyard stepped down from its pedestal and roared.

 

“I so love battling mad women and their giant henchmen,” muttered Anders.  He moved to stand beside Lia and raised his staff next to hers.  “Shall we?”

 

Hawke grinned.  “Let’s finish this.”

 

The confrontation was brutal and bloody.  In spite of her lingering anger toward Anders, Lia was grateful for his help.  He was a master healer, and she felt certain that many of them would have died if not for his tireless casting.  More than once, she saw evidence of Justice’s presence, in cracks of blue that would break across Ander’s skin whenever he would begin to falter.  It was then that Justice would take control, lashing out with Fade magic until Anders had recovered his strength and then disappearing as Anders took up his power again.

 

They prevailed in the end, although Lia doubted that even Meredith deserved such a fate as she received.  She stood alone before the warped lyrium statue of the Knight Commander, surrounded only by her friends as they contemplated the horror set in the pavement of the plaza.

 

Anders came to her side, face haggard but eyes clear as he sheathed his staff.  “Never dabble in things beyond your understanding.  She should have left that stuff alone.”

 

Lia raised her head and looked around the Gallows.  The templars stood in a wide berth around them, staring wordlessly at the remnant of their leader.  Cullen walked forward and knelt before the statue, head bowed.

 

“The Order is corrupted, the Chantry destroyed, and Kirkwall has no leader.”  He lifted sorrowful eyes to Hawke.  “What now, Champion?”

 

“You will figure it out, Knight Captain,” she replied.  Every muscle in her body ached, and her heart was sore.  The templars were eyeing them with ill-concealed hatred, and her mind was screaming that it was time to get out of there.  “I think we better leave before anything else happens.”

 

Cullen followed her anxious gaze to his men and then glanced at Anders.  “Yes, I agree with you.”  He stood and grasped her hand firmly.  “Go with my thanks, Lia Hawke.  Kirkwall will not forget you.”

 

“Thank you, Cullen.”  She headed for the gate, and the templars parted before her.  She and her companions strode swiftly to the docks, resisting the urge to look behind them for an attack.  Varric hurried to her side, almost running to match her pace.

 

“Nice escape, Hawke, but how are we going to get out of here?”

 

“I wish I knew,” said Lia, scanning the ships along the harbor.

 

“Oohh,” breathed Isabela sidling up to them.  “Perhaps now would be the perfect time to show you my new baby?”

 

They all turned to stare at her, and she giggled playfully.  “Follow me!”  She pranced down the boardwalk and led them to a rugged two-mast ship that had seen better days.  The wood was rotting in places and the sails needed patching, but Isabela gazed on it as if it were brand new.

 

“So what do you think?  I just purchased it a week ago!  I was going to fix it up a little more before I showed it off, but no time like the present, right?”

 

“Will it stay afloat?”  Varric sounded skeptical, and Lia couldn’t blame him.

 

Isabela pouted and cocked her hip angrily.  “Of course it will!  If you prefer another boat….”

 

“No, no,” said Lia hastily.  “It’s perfect, Isabela.  Is it ready to sail?”

 

“Stocked and loaded.  All I need to do is find those cursed men I hired….”  She rubbed her chin thoughtfully.  “Get yourselves on board while I go round them up.”  She flounced off in the direction of the harbor master.

 

Everyone trudged up the plank except for Aveline.  Hawke gave her a tight hug.

 

“Thank you, Aveline.  For everything.”

 

“I’m sorry I can’t go, Hawke, but someone’s gotta keep Kirkwall from falling to the Coterie and slavers.  Cullen’s going to need help.”

 

“I know.  I’ll be back… when I can.”

 

Aveline gave her arms a squeeze.  “Go do what you have to do.”  She glanced up at the ship.  “Take care of yourself… and him.”  They both knew she meant Anders.

 

“I don’t know what to do with him, but I’ll try.”  She gave Aveline a weak smile, and turned to board the ship. 

 

Hawke, Varric, Merrill, Fenris, Anders, and Carver stood at the railing as the docks of Kirkwall receded, along with the cliffs adorned with golden statues that glittered in the setting sun.  Isabela could be heard behind them, calling out orders to her crew.  Lia was surprised that Carver had decided to join them; she had been sure that he would stay with Cullen.

 

“I don’t think I’m going to be welcome among the Kirkwall templars anytime soon,” he said.  “You leave a long and scary shadow, Sis.”

 

“Too late to change your last name?” she teased and he barked out a rueful laugh.  They had never been close, and the tension had built between them after he joined the Order.  But somehow, she knew that everything would be all right.  After all, he was here.

 

Varric propped his elbows on the rail and leaned forward.  “Well, Hawke, what’s the plan?”

 

“Ferelden,” she replied.  “We go to King Alistair.”  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the ocean breeze.  “Carver, we’re going home.”


	17. Chapter 17

In spite of the fact that winter spent inside Denerim’s Palace was much better than winter spent inside a tent, Zevran would have preferred that it were not winter at all.  At times like this, he fervently wished for his beloved Antiva with its bright, sunlit brick plazas, red and orange saris flashing amidst tanned brown skin, and muggy, lazy afternoons spent lounging nude in bed while a salty breeze washed in from the harbor.  Truly, Ferelden was never more inhospitable than during the bone-chilling months when ice blanketed roads and snow piled high against stone walls, which did little to defend those inside from the insidious bite of winter.  The sun was a treasure lost behind sulking, angry clouds that jealously guarded their prize while occasionally spitting out snow and ice in their fury.

 

Perhaps the bitter cold provided his reason for remaining in Alistair’s bed until the dark began lightening to steel gray each morning.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to unwind himself from the warmth of Alistair’s body and dress quickly to return to his own room before the household rose.  Alistair refused to help matters and instead often delayed Zevran’s escape with a playful nip at Zevran’s ear or a languorous caress along the sharp plane of his hip.  In such a short time, Alistair had become adept at knowing where to place even the lightest touch to quicken Zevran’s breath.

 

At the moment, Alistair was spooned against Zevran’s back, his forehead resting against Zevran’s neck, warm breath tickling sensitive skin.  One arm was curled under Zevran’s pillow while the other one looped comfortably around Zevran’s waist, fingers twisting restlessly in his sleep.  Zevran wanted nothing more than to burrow into Alistair’s heat but his internal clock warned of the impending dawn.  He sighed and began the delicate process of extricating himself from Alistair’s embrace.

 

“Mmph… Zev?”  Alistair’s sleepy mumble vibrated pleasantly against Zevran’s neck and sent a shiver down his spine.

 

“Go back to sleep, Alistair.  There’s still time before daybreak.”

 

“Stay.”  Alistair pulled him back against his broad chest.

 

“That would be inadvisable and you know it.”

 

“And you know that I don’t care what others think.”

 

“You are the king, Alistair.  It does matter, whether we wish it to or not.”

 

“Don’t remind me,” Alistair said with a sigh.  Reluctantly, he released Zevran and watched with hungry eyes as the elf dressed, the cold air driving goose bumps up Zevran’s arms.  “I can think of ways to get rid of those goose bumps, Zev.”

 

Zevran leaned over the bed to brush Alistair’s lips with his own.  “You are acquiring quite a dirty mind, _mi querido_.”

 

Alistair slid his tongue into Zevran’s mouth, deepening the kiss until Zevran was almost panting for air.  He released his lover with a grin and cocked an eyebrow at Zevran.  “Says the most filthy-minded rogue in all of Thedas.”

 

“I _do_ have a reputation to maintain,” said Zevran.  He gave Alistair a jaunty wink before letting himself out.  Shivering in the cold, he leaned against the door, closing his eyes with a sigh.  _Although to be truthful, a reputation is not so fine a thing as I used to believe.  I must be getting old indeed that I would rather exchange my cloak of infamous seduction for a comfortable blanket wrapped around a king and myself._

He snapped open his eyes at the sound of booted feet approaching and casually pushed himself off the door to face the dour, stooped figure of Seneschal Eamon.  The older man came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Zevran, his mouth slack with disbelief before thinning into a grim line of disapproval.  Zevran performed an elaborate bow and hid his dislike for Eamon behind a beaming smile that was far too exuberant for so early in the morning.

 

“A good morning to you, Seneschal, although it would surely be a better one if the sun would make an appearance, yes?”

 

Eamon narrowed his eyes at Zevran.  “You are up early, Zevran Arainai.”  His eyes flicked to Alistair’s door.  “And in the wrong part of the castle.”

 

Zevran looked askance at the door.  “Am I?  To be sure, all the doors in this palace look the same, do they not?  Ah well, I’ll be off to my proper door then!”  He shoved his disheveled locks behind his ears, cursing himself silently for being careless enough to leave his hair messy and unbound.  With a short nod, he sidled past the glowering seneschal and made his way down the stairs leading to the main part of the castle.

 

After arriving back at his own room, which was rather neglected as he had been spending every night with Alistair, he flopped onto the bed, too tired to undress again.  Breakfast was still hours away, and a little more sleep held a definite appeal.  He pulled the blankets over himself and drifted off with the pinched face of Eamon still haunting his thoughts.  _If he makes any trouble for Alistair over this, I shall drag him to the roof of_ _Fort_ _Drakon_ _and toss him over the wall myself._

 

 _###_

 

Alistair pushed aside a pile of letters from the various arlings, rubbing his forehead.  In the beginning of his reign, he had requested that Ferelden’s arls send him biannual reports of the status of their lands, and this was the latest batch.  Even though it had been several years since the Blight, Ferelden was still in the recovery stage.  Scorched and corrupted earth was only just beginning to heal enough from the darkspawn to produce viable crops.  Imports were still outweighing exports, but the tide was turning at last.  The coming year would hopefully see the first break in Ferelden’s food shortage in years.  _Maybe now we can finally get both feet back on the ground and regain our strength_.  _If we can keep this threat from Orlais at bay_.

Knuckles rapped sharply on his office door, interrupting his thoughts.

 

“Come in!”  He hoped it was Zevran; he could use a little distraction at the moment.

 

Instead of the grinning assassin, Eamon entered, his face set in grim lines that grew deeper with each year.  _Uh oh.  I know that look_.

 

Alistair waved him to a chair in front of his desk.  “You look tired, Eamon.  What can I do for you?”

 

“I believe that we must have a talk, Alistair.”  The seneschal sat stiffly on the edge of the wooden chair.  His eyes kept sliding away from Alistair’s gaze as if skimming across a slippery surface.  _So this isn’t a talk he wants to have.  Which means I don’t either._

“Just speak your mind.  We know each other well enough to sidestep the polite wordplay.”

 

Eamon pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Alistair, your personal life is your own, of course.  However, there are… certain aspects of it that can never be wholly private.”

 

 _He knows._   “I know this well, Eamon.  You hardly need to remind me.”

 

“Then please explain to me what exactly is your… _liaison_ with the elf.”  Eamon could barely conceal his distaste, one corner of his mouth turning down in disdain.

 

“Like you said, my personal life is my own.”  Under the desk, Alistair’s hands clenched into fists.

 

Eamon shifted in his chair, finally pinning Alistair with a shrewd look.  “Your personal life affects Ferelden.  You must marry again, Alistair.  It is in the country’s best interests.  The elf may have provided an entertaining… dalliance… however that is all it can be.”

 

“And if I should want more than a _dalliance_?”  Alistair spit out the distasteful word with all the venom he could muster.

 

Eamon’s eyes widened in shock.  “Surely, you don’t imply….”  He exhaled sharply and narrowed his eyes at Alistair.  “Do not be a fool.  You would ruin your chance at a profitable marriage for him?  He is an _elf_ , an _assassin_.  Not to mention he has quite the reputation for seducing his marks.  You cannot believe that you are anything to him, Alistair….”

 

“ _Enough!_ ”  Alistair’s fist slammed down on the desk with enough force to split a crack in the polished wood.  He stood and braced both hands on the desk, leaning forward with eyes hard and cold as the ice gathered on the nearby window.  “His name is _Zevran_.  You will speak of him as such.  He is a _hero_ of the Blight and has saved my _life_ , of which you clearly need to be reminded.  What goes on between us is _none_ of your sodding business, Seneschal.  We will speak no more of this.  Is that clear?”  His breath was coming in short gasps, fury robbing his lungs of air.

 

Eamon rose with clenched jaw and flushed cheeks.  “It is, Your Majesty.  I will attend to my other duties, now.  As I hope you will attend to yours.”  Before Alistair could form a retort, the door slammed behind the seneschal’s stooped back.

 

Alistair dropped back into his chair with an audible groan.  Eamon was not a man he wanted as an enemy, but really, the man presumed far too much _.  Even if Zevran had not appeared, I would not be anxious to bring another woman to bed based on political machinations.  Once was too much._ His mind could not even compare the cold, iron-willed Anora to Zevran, who had shown him what true passion could achieve.  _If he should leave… it will be by his own choice, not mine._ The thought of his bed empty, the laughing, amber-eyed assassin gone, left his heart as desolate and gray as the cold sky above.

 

###

 

Lia found him at the back of the ship, resting his elbows on the rail and staring vacantly at the swells trailing behind the rudder.  Stray locks of silver hair hid his eyes from her view, but she knew when he became aware of her presence by the sudden twitch of his neck.

 

“Fenris?”  They had been at sea for two days, and he had avoided her with astounding thoroughness considering the limited number of hiding places on a ship.

 

“Hawke.”

 

She flinched from the callous lack of affection in his tone; the deep timbre of his voice was neutral and carefully guarded.  She flinched from the callous lack of affection in that tone.  “Can we talk?”  _Please_.

 

He pushed himself upright, his movements stiff and jerky.  “About what?”

 

 _Well, of course, he won’t make this easy_.  “Look, I know you’re angry with me.  I did what I thought was best… what I thought I could live with.  It wasn’t an easy decision.”

 

He continued to stare at the water, fingers moving restlessly, always seeking the hilt of his sword.  “Who was it best for?  Anders?  The magi?”  One hand curled into a fist at his side.  “Do you have any idea what repercussions this will have on all of Thedas?”

 

“I don’t think anyone can guess the path Fate weaves.  We can only choose the threads we feel most comfortable with and hope the pattern will not become corrupted.”

 

“And if it does?”  He finally swiveled his head to meet her gaze with green eyes clouded with misery.

 

“Then we deal with the consequences.  I’m only a woman, Fenris.  The same one as before, the one who loves you.”  Tears blurred her vision, turning his figure into a miasma of gray mixed with lines of white.

 

“Somehow, I do not think that I figured into your decision, Hawke.  In fact, I’m not sure exactly _where_ I fit into your agenda.  Nor do I know any longer where you fit into mine.”  He dropped his chin to his chest and pushed past her with stumbling steps as if he, like her, could no longer see past the pain.

 

She stood rooted to the creaking deck for several moments before dashing the heel of her hand across her moist cheeks.  Gritting her teeth, she moved purposefully toward the front of the ship, ignoring the lewd stares of Isabela’s crew.  She found Anders where he usually was, sitting propped against the foremast and staring at the ocean with the same empty gaze she had seen from Fenris.  _So many of us are broken; will we ever heal?_ She sat beside him, her arm brushing against the soft feathers on his coat.

 

“If you scorn me also, I don’t know if I can stand it.”

 

A faint smile crossed his face, but she could see the strain behind the tight lips.  “Fenris is still being a bastard?”

 

“There’s always a price to pay when love’s involved, isn’t there?”  She stared down at the scuffed scratches in the plank of wood beneath her feet.

 

“Indeed there is.”  His voice sounded hoarse, and she remembered the time in his clinic, when he had told her about the Hero of Ferelden.  _He was prepared to die without ever seeing her again.  I don’t know if I could be that strong._

“We’re going home to Ferelden, Anders.  Maybe… maybe you could find her again.”

 

“She may not _want_ to see me again.”  He shook his head and followed her gaze to the deck.  “I don’t think love and happiness are in my future, Hawke.  Destiny and purpose?  Yes.  Stability and comfort?  No.”

 

She linked her arm through his and leaned against his shoulder.  “Stability and comfort are highly over-rated.”

 

He chuckled and laid his cheek on her head.  “Is that why we’re fleeing on a ship?  I had almost forgotten.”  They both laughed, feeling just a little lighter in heart as they watched the sun set in a glory of blazing orange and deep crimson.

 

###

 

Alistair spent the evening with Duncan, helping him build a toy ship from various pieces of wood.  After telling him a pirate story, he tucked the small boy into bed and went in search of Zevran.  Duncan had mentioned that he hadn’t seen Zevran all day, which was unusual as Zevran often spent a portion of each afternoon with the boy either playing or working with him on his horseback riding.  To his surprise, he found Zevran sitting quietly on the plainly covered bed in his own room.  They had spent every evening together in Alistair’s room since their return to the Keep; Zevran seemed almost out of place here.

 

“Zev?”

 

He made it as far as the bed before he realized something was wrong.  Zevran’s smile as he looked up at Alistair was… empty, the same charming smile he gave people he didn’t know, the one that formed part of his mask.  His golden eyes were hard, not cold… just walled off.

 

“Ah, Alistair.”  Zevran seemed on the verge of saying more but hesitated just long enough that Alistair felt he needed to fill the silence.

 

“Duncan missed you today.”

 

“Did he?”  Alistair’s heart skipped a beat; Zevran sounded so… _vague_.  “I will apologize to _mi_ _chico_ tomorrow.  I… was a bit distracted today.”

 

Alistair’s skin prickled with the same certainty he had felt this morning with Eamon.  _Why am I always a step behind_?  He sat on the edge of the bed next to his lover.

 

“You were listening, weren’t you?  To Eamon and I.  I should really start checking behind closed doors for you.”

 

Zevran barked a harsh laugh.  “Ah, but that is part of my duty, _mi querido_.  If I don’t know what is happening, how can I protect you?”

 

Alistair wasn’t fooled by Zevran’s light tone.  “Talk to me, Zev.  Eamon has never bothered you before.  What has changed?”

 

“Eamon is a bigoted fool, but some of his words have merit, Alistair.”

 

A cold thought flashed through Alistair’s mind, a snippet of his future:  Zevran gone and a faceless woman at his side, one who smiled courteously and took his arm while offering soft, meaningless chatter, who lay coldly beside him in bed at night like a stranger, who treated Duncan with all the stiffness of a woman who has never been a mother.  His throat constricted as if a noose was being wrapped around his neck.

 

“None of his words held any merit with _me_.  Please tell me you don’t agree with him.”

 

Not once in all this time had Zevran looked up at him, and even now, he was staring at his lap where slender fingers worried at a loose thread in the cuff of his undershirt.

 

“You are a king, Alistair, and I… I am an Antivan assassin, one who does not even hold any standing among the Crows any longer.  Your country no doubt longs for a queen, a role I cannot fulfill.  Perhaps this was a mistake and I should have considered this before….”

 

He never finished his reasoning, which sounded lackluster even to himself.  With a blurring speed that was entirely uncharacteristic of a warrior more used to strength than dexterity, Alistair had Zevran flat on his back on the bed, arms pinned at his sides.  Alistair’s hazel eyes glittered with sparks of heated fury and a deep furrow delved between his drawn eyebrows.  He lowered his face until it was only inches away from Zevran’s, preventing the assassin from averting his gaze.

 

“I do not believe this, not from you, and not now, not after everything we’ve been through together.  I will not hold you here, Zevran; you are not a prisoner or slave that you must go where I bid.  But you will not spout those… _platitudes_ at me as if I have newly come to the throne and need _guidance_.  That is not what…this,” he gestured wildly between his chest and Zevran’s, “is about.  It has never been about that, to me.”  He shuddered once and closed his eyes, dropping his head forward.  “The years after the Blight have been like a barren field unable to recover from the devastation.  Rielle deserted me and Anora shunned me.  I had given up….”  He turned his head to the side, suddenly unable to meet Zevran’s stunned stare.  “You were the last person I would expect…but… it was you, all along it was _you_.  Even when it was Rielle, it was you.  I see that now.”  He relaxed his grip on Zevran’s arms.  “If you can look at me and say honestly that all this never mattered enough… then go, and I will not stop you.”  He twisted his head back to Zevran.  “But if it did mean more… if you can understand what I’m trying to say… then….”  His ragged breath broke into his words, and his voice faltered like the last leaf in autumn drifting to the ground.

 

The moment stretched between them, as thin as a thread woven by Fate among many.  Zevran felt his balance on it, wavering and precarious, the mere breath of indecision a puff away from causing his fall.  How strange it was that at this moment, the image that came to mind was the beady, piercing eye of a crow perched upon the rooftop of his loft.  _Face the shadows in your heart and make your choice, Zevran Arainai._   Had the witch seen this, even then?

 

The moment passed and the thread took its place in the loom.  With a strength often overlooked due to his slight build, Zevran locked his legs around Alistair and threw him to the side.  Swift as a cat, he rolled Alistair to his back and climbed on top of him, hair falling loosely around his face, teeth bared, and eyes lit with a golden fire.

 

“Do you think you could stop me if I wished to leave, Alistair?  Or order me to leave if I wished to stay?  And what is this _power_ you have over me that you could do this?  You have mastered the Crow who defied the Guild.  You have turned my derision into admiration.  I have never tied myself to _anyone_ ; I have never allowed it.  And you have the audacity to come here and ask…. _what_ , Alistair?”

The tension in Alistair’s face had smoothed to an eerie calm.  The hand he lifted to Zevran’s tattooed cheek did not tremble as his fingers traced the sinuous lines there.  His eyes did not stray from the angry, confused ones glaring back.

 

“Te amo, Zevran.”

 

The golden eyes closed, and Zevran went completely still, except for a single strangled gasp that escaped his lips. 

 

Alistair waited, the eye of the storm that raged above him within the lithe, taut body stretched over his own.  And then the storm broke.

 

Lovemaking with Zevran had always been gentle and smooth, peppered with an edge of need.  Tonight was not about tenderness, not about simple pleasure to be given and received.  Alistair’s words were a fire that burned away the chaff around Zevran’s heart and the ice that split cracks in the stone around his soul.   There were no words that could encompass this, no speech that could describe the sudden freedom that had set a Crow to soar at last.

 

Clothes were a barrier easily removed, giving place to skin pressed against skin, heat and need sparking like electricity along sweaty flesh.  Alistair could do little except arch and writhe below Zevran as he claimed Alistair with devouring kisses and needy bites.  No inch of skin was ignored; he marked Alistair with tongue and teeth, with groans and curses. Through it all, Alistair kept his fingers threaded into Zevran’s long locks, stroking at the elf’s sensitive scalp and murmuring soft words of encouragement.  Only when Zevran took him into the wet heat of his mouth did the words finally break into ragged cries and panting gasps.

 

When Zevran entered him at last, it was almost too much, the overwhelming sensation of being filled with more than just flesh.  When he opened his eyes, struggling to hold himself together and not shatter, Zevran was there, amber eyes meeting hazel ones.  Alistair could feel the pulse of Zevran’s erection deep inside and _see_ the pulse of unchecked emotion in Zevran’s eyes.  And he was _home_ here, with the man he loved.

 

They moved in a seamless rhythm, flowing together and apart amidst clutching fingers and desperate kisses, Alistair moaning while Zevran whispered in Antivan.

 

“ _Usted es el mìo… mi corazon… mi vida… mi amor…_.”

 

Alistair came first, crying out as the golden eyes above him sparked with flame and pleasure.  Still gripped in aftershocks, he watched breathless as Zevran threw his head back, mouth agape, hair disheveled and falling across his flushed face.  He felt the surge of throbbing heat deep inside as Zevran released a wild shout, his entire body taut with ecstasy.  Alistair gripped Zevran’s hips as the assassin shuddered violently and then collapsed bonelessly onto Alistair’s chest, his heartbeat fluttering against Alistair’s.

 

They lay together for a while without moving, content and sated.  Finally, Alistair shifted to his side, pulling Zevran closer within his arms and curling around him.  Zevran hummed sleepily, splaying one hand against Alistair’s chest and twirling his finger around an errant chest hair.  Alistair could sense the change between them, as if a curtain had been pulled aside to reveal the sunshine, but he had never been one to leave certain concerns unvoiced.

 

“Are you going to be upset if I don’t consider you my hired bodyguard anymore?”

 

The finger on his chest went still, and Alistair could hear the smile in the smooth voice against his skin.  “I will find other ways for you to pay me, _mi amor_.”

 

“And Zev?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I do know what _mi amor_ means.  Duncan has a good teacher.”

 

This time, he _felt_ the smile against his chest.  “You shall become a proper Antivan yet, Alistair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Special thanks to zevgirl for her hard work correcting my errors.


	18. Chapter 18

Sigrun gulped another swallow of her hot, spiced wine and licked her lips in satisfaction.  It was always a treat in winter to stop by the Crown and Lion for the delectable drink after a weary trudge from Vigil’s Keep in the icy wind.  She and Oghren had just arrived an hour previously to look into ordering some armor for their newly arrived recruits.  When Oghren had insisted on stopping at Amaranthine’s tavern for a ‘bit of a sip’, she hadn’t minded in the least.  With the wine warming her belly, she could almost overlook the other dwarf singing off-key at the bar.  As long as he kept his stench across the room, she would be content.

 

The door opened, admitting a small boy in a ragged coat and torn shoes, along with a flurry of snowflakes.  The boy stopped just inside the door, shivering while he scanned the room with tired, forlorn eyes.  The patrons barely glanced at him before returning to their drinks, but the bartender narrowed his eyes and gave the boy a warning look.  Shying away from the glare, the ragamuffin settled his gaze on Sigrun and scooted furtively over to her table.

 

“’Scuse me, but are ya one of the Wardens?”

 

“That’s me,” said Sigrun, raking her eyes over the boy’s dirty, thread-worn clothes.  “And what do you want?”

 

“Gotta letter for ya, Warden, Ser.  Supposed to take it directly to ya.”  He reached a grubby hand into a ripped pocket to withdraw a crumpled envelope.  He plopped it on the stained table in front of Sigrun and waited expectantly.

 

“And who gave you this, boy?”

 

He gave a nonchalant shrug.  “Dunno and don’ care.  He paid me to bring it.”

 

Sigrun sighed and delved into her belt pouch to withdraw a sovereign.  The boy’s eyes widened, and his lips crooked into a disbelieving smile, revealing broken teeth.

 

“Here,” said Sigrun.  “Go buy yourself some warm clothes, you hear me?”

 

“Yes, Ser!  Thank you, Warden!”  The boy snapped the coin from Sigrun’s fingers and darted gleefully from the pub, not even noticing the angry huff from the bartender.

 

Sigrun opened the envelope with stubby fingers and withdrew a crisp piece of parchment.

 

 _Warden, I am aware that you are acting as Warden Commander in Arl Howe’s absence.  I have information that would be of great importance to you.  Please meet me at the Old Stark Farm tomorrow at sunrise._

 _Ser Wolf_

“Him again,” Sigrun muttered under her breath.  The Dark Wolf surfaced from time to time, like darkspawn from the Deep Roads, always with a mysterious letter such as this one.  Rielle and Nathaniel had always found his information useful, but Sigrun distrusted his dubious character.  Nevertheless, she could hardly ignore his summons; his knowledge was always accurate.

 

A sudden clump sounded from across the room, and she looked up to see Oghren picking himself off the floor.  Rubbing his arse, he stumbled over to her table and plunked himself in a chair.  Only years of building up an immunity kept Sigrun from doing more than wrinkle her nose.

 

“As acting Commander, I believe I have the authority to order you to get a sodding bath.”

 

Oghren snorted.  “You can try, little missy, but water doesn’t like me.”  He pulled a long, stringy _something_ from one of his braids.  “What’s in that envelope that kid brought you?”

 

“It’s another of those letters from the Dark Wolf.  He wants to meet tomorrow morning.”  She rubbed at a tattooed cheek while frowning down at the parchment.

 

“That weird knight who never takes his helmet off?  I keep telling the Commander to watch his back with that one.  Never trust a man, dwarf, or elf that won’t show his face.”

 

“Heh.  Well, I guess I better go see him, and you’re going with me.  Be ready to hit the road at dawn… _sober_.”

 

Oghren shifted and the floor beneath them reverberated as he let out a satisfied sigh.  “You don’t want to see me sober, missy.  It’s worse than facing a pit full of broodmothers.”

 

“Sometimes I want to throw _you_ into a pit full of broodmothers,” muttered Sigrun, heading off to her room upstairs, where it smelled pleasantly of anything _but_ Oghren.

 

###

 

The next day found them crouched behind some bushes just outside the rickety fence that surrounded the Old Stark Farm.  Sigrun placed the spyglass Rielle had given her against her eye and scanned the area for any signs of an ambush.

 

“Well, anything?”  Oghren took a swig from his flask of something that smelled like cat piss.

 

“I see him, leaning against the wall of the barn.”  Sigrun collapsed the spyglass and placed it in her belt.  “Do you think he’s really a knight?”

 

“Nah.  Knights don’t go skulking around abandoned farms with a name like Dark Wolf.  He probably stole that armor of his.”

 

They headed cautiously to the barn, past the fields long left fallow and now covered with a smattering of snow from the previous night.  The Dark Wolf straightened as they approached and raised his hand in greeting.

 

“Wardens.  I’m glad to see you got my message.”  His voice was gravelly and soft, the perfect tone for someone wanting to avoid being recognized.

 

“I’m sorry the Commander is away on business,” said Sigrun.  “I hope you don’t mind giving us your information.”  She winced when Oghren chimed in with an agreeable belch.  “Don’t mind him; he’s a bit touched in the head.”

 

“Hey….”  Oghren glowered at her and hefted his axe with a defiant lift of his chin.  “I’m a hero of the Blight, I’ll have you know.”

 

Before Sigrun could retort, the Dark Wolf waved his hand to interrupt them.  “I know that Commander Howe holds you both in high regard, so I will pass this information along to you.  I trust that you have brought some form of payment?”

 

“Yeah, I got some coin.  What’s the information?” asked Sigrun, elbowing Oghren sharply to silence his grumbling.

 

“Someone is spreading rumors among the Banns, rumors that are quite detrimental to the Warden’s reputation.  This person is saying that Commander Howe has become greedy and wishes to levy heavy taxes on the lands of Amaranthine.  The name Rendon Howe has been surfacing frequently as a reminder of the harsh rule of Amaranthine’s former Arl.  The Banns have become convinced that Commander Howe seeks to tighten his control over their holdings and feed their income to the Wardens.”

 

“That’s preposterous!” shouted Sigrun.  “The Commander is nothing like his father, and he has no interest in the Banns’ lands.  He doesn’t even _like_ having the title of Arl.”

 

“The missy speaks true,” said Oghren.  “Commander Howe is as straight as they come.  None of us Wardens want anything to do with the Banns.”

 

The Dark Wolf nodded.  “Of course these are all lies, but the Banns believe them.  I thought it prudent to warn you about the allegations before they request a hearing at Vigil’s Keep.”

 

“And just who is spreading these vile rumors?” asked Sigrun.

 

“Ah, _that_ is the most interesting tidbit of all.  It took quite a bit of research on my part, but my contacts are very thorough.  The troublemaker is a woman, an Orlesian bard.”

 

Sigrun gaped at him.  “A bard?  What in the Stone is a bard doing in Amaranthine causing trouble for the Wardens?”

 

“Now _that_ I fear you’ll have to ask the woman yourself.  I’m sure you want the location where she is hiding?”

 

Oghren growled and tugged at his beard.  “You can bet all the nugs in Orzammar on that.  Tell us where she is, and we’ll go show her some manners best taught by dwarves.”

 

“First, your payment, please.”

 

Sigrun dug into her pouch and slapped ten gold sovereigns in the Wolf’s gauntleted palm.  “That enough?”

 

The man bowed and tucked the coins away in his armor.  “You are most generous, Warden.”  He described directions to another abandoned farm that lay near Vigil’s Keep.  “She is either overly confident or simply a fool to stay so close to the object of her venomous insinuations.  She is a bard, however, and they are nearly as bad as Crows.  I suggest caution.”

 

“ _I_ suggest cleaning off the spikes above the Keep’s gates,” said Oghren.  “It’s time for some heads to roll.”

 

###

 

Since they would finally arrive at Denerim tomorrow, Leliana found that she could tolerate sleeping on the cold, rocky ground for one more night.  Of course, there had been a time when she had not minded at all, but that was back in the days before and during the Blight.  After joining the Chantry, she had developed a fondness for clean, soft beds, and the delicate process of aging did not exactly harden the bones against the hardships of traveling for days by foot.

 

Still, the nightly fireside chats with Rielle and the occasional lingering kiss from Nathaniel made the trip much easier to bear.  She had strived to entice the stoic Warden Commander to share her tent but he had repeatedly demurred, stating that he preferred a proper bed with the proper privacy of a room with a door.  Being a romantic at heart, she was not entirely disappointed and was content with gazing at him dreamily across the flickering flames of the campfire while he sharpened his daggers with a whetstone.

 

Currently, the subject of her fantasies was in the nearby forest, hunting during the last light of the winter twilight.  Connor and Dagna were huddled near his tent discussing the possibilities of his newfound skills with the red lyrium.  Temmerin sat with them, cleaning his axe while stealing surreptitious glances at Dagna.  Leliana dropped on a log next to Rielle, who was cleaning and slicing various roots and tubers to season the stew she hoped to make with whatever meat Nathaniel caught.  The former bard stoked the fire and added some wood to the blaze before picking up a knife to assist Rielle.

 

“You know, it will be good to see Alistair again.  I hadn’t realized just how much I’ve missed that man.  Remember how terrible he was at cooking?”  Leliana giggled as she sliced a potato.

 

Rielle smiled fondly at the memory.  “What I remember is how you all teased him so relentlessly.”

 

“But it was so easy!  Besides, it wasn’t me so much as it was Oghren, Morrigan, and Zevran.”

 

“Yes, the four of them were constantly at each other like a couple of territorial brontos.”

 

“Well, Morrigan is gone, but Oghren and Alistair are still in Ferelden.”  Leliana scuffed her boot against the ground absently.  “Have you not spoken to Alistair at all?”

 

“Not since he married Anora.”  Rielle averted her gaze and stared off into the woods.  “I didn’t want to… be in the way.”

 

Leliana smiled at her sadly.  “I know that was difficult for both of you, and I know you’re still worried that Alistair is angry, but I’m sure he has made peace with it.”

 

“I hope so, Leli,” said Rielle.  “To be honest, I’m nervous about seeing him again.  Even if he hadn’t become king, I doubt it would have worked for us.”

 

“What do you mean?” Leliana looked at her quizzically.

 

“I was Alistair’s first, Leli.  What he felt for me… it was infatuation, nothing more.  I’m sure he thought he loved me, but he never had the chance to compare me with anyone else either.”

 

“Well, the rumor is, he never really connected with Anora.  It doesn’t sound like they had a loving relationship.”  Leliana tossed her sliced greens into the pot over the fire.  “I hope things have gotten better for him.”

 

“Me too,” said Rielle with a sigh.  “I truly wish for him to be happy.  He deserves no less.”  She dropped her own vegetables into the boiling water and reached for more to clean.  “It seems like there’s something definitely sparking between you and Nathaniel.”

 

Leliana smiled and paused to stare out into the trees where Nathaniel had gone.  “He’s so chivalrous that it’s almost funny.  I can’t get him to share my bed!”

 

Rielle nodded.  “That doesn’t surprise me.  I got to know Nate somewhat while I was at Vigil’s Keep, and his personality has really improved.  When I first met him, he was terribly broody and angry all the time.  Once he gained confidence in himself, he became a different man, and you could see the noble beneath the rogue.”  She laid a hand on Leliana’s shoulder.  “Nate does have a dark side though, Leli.  I think he’s afraid that you will see it and flee.  That’s why he’s so careful with you.”

 

“I think we all have our dark sides, and I’m not afraid to see Nate’s.  I _want_ to see the real him.”  A wicked gleam shone in Leliana’s eyes.  “Tomorrow night, he will have no more excuses.”

 

Rielle laughed.  “Personally, I can’t wait to sleep in a real bed again.  I never did miss spending cold nights on the ground during the Blight.”  She looked up and gestured at a hooded figure entering the camp with several rabbit carcasses.  “At least we have ourselves a good hunter!”

 

Leliana smiled as Nathaniel approached them, brushing his hood back to reveal his smoky gaze, elegant nose, and trimmed goatee.  _And who will hunt who tomorrow_?

 

###

 

“I really don’t think you need me.  There’s no one even here!”

 

Sigrun turned to glare at the Warden mage who had accompanied her and Oghren to the abandoned farm the Dark Wolf had told them about.  Gerald had joined the Wardens two years ago from the Circle Tower by his own choice.  A self-proclaimed battlemage who specialized in fire magic, he had come to Vigil’s Keep with the hope that he would finally be allowed to employ the fireballs he loved to cast.  Unfortunately, his first encounter with the darkspawn quickly diminished his enthusiasm, and he acquired a reputation for conveniently falling ill whenever a mission required a mage.

 

Frustrated at his cowardice, Sigrun dragged him along whenever she could root him from his beloved library.  When suitably threatened, Gerald proved that he could lob flames with the best of them.  It was the effort of shoving him along and enduring his whining that tested even the most experienced Wardens.  Fortunately, Oghren was too busy fussing over his ale flask to care, and Sigrun wasn’t about to allow a grumbling mage get in her way.

 

“Gerald, the point of hiding is to stay out of view,” she said between gritted teeth.  They were scouting the area around the farmhouse from behind a line of trees.

 

“Looks pretty deserted to me.”

 

“That’s what they want you to think, Flameboy,” said Oghren.  “Gotta flush them out, like a den of nugs.”

 

“Er… how exactly are we going to do that?”  Gerald dragged his fingers through his ginger hair nervously.

 

“Why, we toss you in, of course!”  Oghren grinned as he took a long gulp from his flask.

 

“What?  Wait….”

 

“Relax, Gerald,” said Sigrun, glaring at Oghren.  “He’s kidding.  We are going to need a distraction though, which will be perfect for you.”

 

“I’m really not well built for target practice.”

 

Sigrun let a huff of frustration.  “That house has deteriorated to rotting wood.  Think you can set it on fire from here?”

 

Gerald grinned in his relief.  “Of course!  You want a nice bonfire?”

 

“We don’t want to kill the troublemaker, Flameboy,” rumbled Oghren.  “Need to ask her questions before tossing her in a ditch.”

 

“Just heat up the place a bit,” said Sigrun.  “Get her outside.”

 

Gerald tapped his freckled cheek thoughtfully.  “Hmm, might have to think on that one.  Got to be careful exactly where to aim the heat and then regulate the energy just so… avoid the doors… maybe focus on the corners….”

 

“Andraste’s flaming ass, boy, just throw a fireball or something,” growled Oghren.

 

Gerald stuck out his lower lip and crossed his arms.  “These things require _planning_ and _preparation_.”

 

Sigrun rolled her eyes and jabbed Gerald with the hilt of her dagger.  “No time for that, mage.  Just start a fire!”

 

Gerald grumbled some choice words under his breath but drew his staff and stepped forward, squinting at the shabby homestead.  The air thickened and crackled around them as he drew on power from the Fade, and the dwarves tensed for the attack.  Gripping his stave in both hands, Gerald aimed it at the farmhouse and unleashed a flame that arced blindingly across the yard and whooshed into the back corner of the building.  Wriggling like a snake, a vine of fire twisted up and lanced across the roof, where it coiled into a blazing circle and lashed the wooden shingles with tongues of red and gold.

 

“Nice special effect there, Flameboy!” bellowed Oghren as he dashed from the cover of the trees, Sigrun close behind him.  Gerald grinned with stupefied wonder at the spectacle before realizing that he was standing alone in the trees and, with a gulp, he raced after the other two.

 

Two heavily armored men stormed out of the house with their swords drawn and coughing against the clouds of smoke gushing from the doorway behind them.  They were followed by a slight, hooded figure in light armor brandishing a longbow.  Oghren and Sigrun ran straight for the warriors, Oghren’s taunting bellow preceding them like a sour-smelling ram.  Gerald focused on bringing up shields around the three of them as the archer began to rain a hailstorm of arrows over the melee.  Once he had the barriers firmly in place, he assisted the Wardens by stunning and hexing the warriors.  Fireballs were out of the question with Oghren and Sigrun in such close proximity.

 

The warriors were skilled but no match for two seasoned Wardens and a mage.  Once the archer realized the battle was lost, he tossed a tar bomb at Sigrun and Oghren and made a run for the trees.  Fortunately, Gerald was too far away to absorb the effects and managed to cast a hurried crushing prison on the archer before he got very far.  Weary from maintaining the shields, he gulped a vial of lyrium potion while quickly checking over Sigrun and Oghren, both of whom were recovering from the bomb’s stun.  Sigrun strode over to the paralyzed archer and claimed the bow before pressing a dagger to his throat as Gerald’s spell wore off.

 

“I’m assuming you are the bard causing so much trouble in Amaranthine.  Care to tell us your name?”

 

The archer swayed slightly from the weakening effect of Gerald’s magic and cast Sigrun a glare from within the hooded cloak.  Sigrun brushed back the hood to reveal a petite feminine face with a perky nose, pale creamy skin, and raven-black braided hair.

 

“Heh.  A woman, just like the Wolf said,” rumbled Oghren.  “A little one too.  Doesn’t seem so dangerous to me.”

 

“No more so than two foul-smelling dwarves,” spat the woman.

 

“Hey!” said Sigrun.  “I’ll have you know that there’s only one stinky dwarf here, and that’s Oghren.”  The other dwarf belched in affirmation and twirled his axe contentedly.  “It doesn’t matter who we are; you’re our prisoner.”

 

“Well, you’re obviously Wardens,” said the bard.  “And I can assure you that you’re making a mistake by attacking and imprisoning me.  I have connections in Orlais.”

 

“Oh, indeed?” replied Sigrun.  “Care to elaborate?  Or explain why you’re spreading vile rumors about the Wardens?”  The woman pursed her lips and glared back in response.  “Well, that would have been too easy anyway.  Guess you’ll be spending some time in the Keep’s lovely dungeons.”

 

“Wait….” said Oghren.  “No heads to adorn the spikes above our gates?”

 

“Er, wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of getting information from her?” said Gerald.

 

“Exactly so, Gerald,” said Sigrun, with a hard look at Oghren.  “Glad to see someone here has some sense.”

 

Oghren huffed.  “I got way more brains than Flameboy.  But if you insist on throwing her in the dungeon, can I do the interrogating?”

 

“With what?” asked Sigrun.  “Your farts?  No, we wait for the Commander.  He will know what to do.”  Oghren grumbled under his breath but produced some rope from his pack and proceeded to tie the woman’s hands behind her back.

 

The bard said nothing on the way back to the Keep, refusing even to partake of the bread and cheese they offered.  A quick search of the charred remains of the farmhouse had revealed nothing of interest; any belongings had burned in Gerald’s inferno.  Sigrun was frustrated at the lack of information and upon their return to the Keep, stormed off to her quarters for a bath while Oghren took the prisoner down to the basement cells.

 

Later, after the sun had sunk beneath the hills, Sigrun found Oghren in the kitchen soaking up the heat from the fireplace while finishing the last of his tankard’s ale.

 

“You get that bard locked up tight?” she asked as she sank down on the bench across from him next to a half-full flagon of Oghren’s brew.

 

“Yup.  Got two guards on her too, just in case she tries to pick the lock.”

 

Sigrun sighed.  “I really wish I knew where the Commander was and when he’s coming back.  This bard gives me the same feeling I get when the darkspawn are sneaking up on me.”

 

“Those weird gargled screams in your head?”  Sigrun glared at Oghren, and he chuckled.  “Calm yourself.  I know what you mean.”

 

“I think we better take this to King Alistair,” said Sigrun.  “He should know what’s going on, especially if Orlais is behind this.”

 

“Good idea,” said Oghren.  “You going to take the bard to Denerim?”

 

“Too dangerous.  She might escape.”  Sigrun rubbed her chin thoughtfully.  “You’re going to Denerim to tell him.  You know him, after all.”

 

“Now wait a bloody minute,” grumbled Oghren.  “It’s cold out there, in case you haven’t noticed.  I don’t want to freeze my toes off traveling to Denerim.”

 

“The Commander left me in charge, and I say you’re going.”  Sigrun shoved the flagon of ale across the table.  “So drink up and warm that belly of yours.  Tomorrow, you’re off with a contingent of five Wardens.”

 

“Never leave a Stone-blasted woman in charge,” Oghren grumbled into his tankard as Sigrun stalked off.  “They always send off the men to do their dirty work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to zevgirl for correcting my errors!


	19. Chapter 19

The last time Rielle Surana had seen Denerim, the city lay in charred ruins from the battle with the darkspawn.  Alistair had just married and taken the crown, and the people had looked to him for aid in rebuilding their homes.  She could see now that he had done well.  Children ran happily between well-built houses, and the marketplace was bustling with merchants and townspeople shopping for wares.  The Chantry was newly built with polished stone and new stained glass windows, and as they passed the alienage, Rielle could see no sign of the slum from the past.  Elves strolled happily through clean streets, and she glimpsed the huge branches of the vhenadahl, leafless in the Ferelden winter.

 

“Amazing, isn’t it?” commented Leliana.  “Alistair did a great job rebuilding the city and even managed to persuade the nobility to contribute.  He and Shianni completely revamped the alienage, and you wouldn’t even recognize it.  I visited here once some years ago to check on the new Chantry.  Alistair was visiting Amaranthine at the time, however, so I didn’t get to see him.”

 

As they approached the Palace, Rielle looked up at the skyline to see the huge tower of Fort Drakon.  In spite of the sunlight, she shivered and felt Leliana place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

 

“Shadows still loom, don’t they?  I understand that Alistair hates the place also and never goes there.  It’s mostly used as a dungeon for criminals now.”  She pulled at Rielle’s hand.  “But come.  There’s something you need to see that makes a much better sight.”

 

They approached the Palace, which unlike most of Denerim, looked the same except for an enormous marble statue that stood before the gates.  Rielle stopped and stared at it in wonder.

 

“It’s….”

 

“Duncan.  You met him before Ostagar, right?  Alistair used his image to make his memorial to those who died during the Blight.  Go read the plaque.”

 

Rielle drifted toward the statue and stared up at it with tears burning her eyes.  It was definitely Duncan, clad in the same Warden armor she remembered.  His face stared into the sky with the determined look he had worn when she and Alistair had last seen him off to battle.  _Before Loghain betrayed him_.  She tilted her head down to read the plaque at the base.

 

 _To the men and women who died during the fifth Blight:  humans, dwarves, and elves.  Ferelden does not forget_.

 

Simple and direct, exactly as Duncan had been.

 

Nathaniel came to stand beside her.  “I wish I had been here.  I _should_ have been here.  Maybe I could have stopped….”  His voice broke, and Rielle turned to grip his shoulder tightly.

 

“We’ve talked about this, Nate.  You are _not_ responsible for your father’s actions.”  Rielle looked up into his face anxiously, searching for signs of the dark depression that sometimes consumed her friend.

 

He shook himself and squeezed her hand gratefully.  “I _do_ know that.  It’s just difficult sometimes.”  He gave her a brief hug while Leliana watched them with concern, wondering at the show of anguish from the normally stoic Warden Commander.

 

“Come,” said Nathaniel, his voice strong once more.  “Let’s go see Alistair, shall we?”

 

Connor, Dagna, and Temmerin followed them up the stone steps to the gate.  The guards came to attention as they approached and barred their way.

 

“Good afternoon.  What business do you have at the Palace?”  The taller guard stepped forward and looked them over curiously.

 

Nathaniel gave him a short bow.  “I am the Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, Ser.  My friends and I bring news to the King.”

 

The other guard, short and stout, came to stand beside the other guard.  “We can admit you, Commander, but not the others.  Security has been increased since the assassination attempts, you understand.”

 

Nathaniel opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted by a quiet command from the guardhouse beside the gate.

 

“Stand down, gentlemen.  I know these people.”  Commander Kylon emerged from the building with a smile of genuine delight and bowed low before Rielle.  His guards stared open-mouthed at the display of respect.

 

“It has been long, my Lady, but it is good to see you again,” said Kylon.

 

“Kylon!”  Rielle laughed and pulled him into a hug.  “It is good to see you also.  You remember Leliana?”

 

“Of course!”  Kylon bowed to Leliana as well before turning back to the guards.  “Gentlemen, you were too young to fight during the days of the Blight, but you are looking upon the Hero of Ferelden and her companion, Leliana, who fought at her side.  They are most welcome here.”

 

Both guards dropped immediately to their knees.  “Forgive me, ladies,” said the shorter guard.  “I did not know.  You may enter, of course!”

 

Rielle laughed.  “It is quite all right.  I’m glad to see that Alistair is well-protected.”

 

Kylon led the group into the Palace.  “Alistair will be excited to see you both.  Seneschal Eamon will also, I’m sure.”

 

“We’ve brought his son, Kylon,” said Rielle, gesturing to Connor, who returned Kylon’s astonished gaze with a grin.

 

“Well, forgive me, young Ser.  It has been long since you’ve visited, and I did not recognize you!”

 

“It’s okay, Commander,” said Connor.  “But could you let Father know I’m here?”

 

“Yes, of course,” replied Kylon.  “Just as soon as I take you all to the King.  And here we are!  He’s usually in his study at this hour.”

 

The group stopped outside a heavy, oak door, at which Kylon knocked.  Rielle swallowed a sudden surge of nervousness and took an involuntary step back.  _Does he hate me?  Will he forgive what I had to do?_  Leliana reached out and took her hand, and Rielle shot her a grateful glance as Kylon opened the door to Alistair’s study.

 

Alistair was sitting behind a huge desk that almost dwarfed him, and when he saw them, he stood up so abruptly his chair fell back with a clatter.  He kicked it out of the way and came around the desk with a smile that gave his face the boyish appearance of his Blight years.

 

“Maker, I don’t believe it!  Leli and Rielle?”  He pulled Rielle into a bear hug that had her giggling in relief, burying her face into the broad chest of one of the greatest friends she had ever had.  Tears came once more to her eyes as she returned the embrace.  _I should have come before this.  I was so stupid._ There was no hesitation from her former lover, no resentment.  Just an honest joy that made her dizzy with happiness.

 

Alistair turned and pulled Leliana into the huddle, and the three of them were laughing as they shared a moment of delightful reunion.  Finally, Alistair stepped back and gave Nathaniel a nod.

 

“Commander Howe, it is good to see you again.  I owe you a great deal for bringing these ladies to Denerim.  How go things at Vigil’s Keep?”

 

“The last I heard, the situation was well, Your Majesty.  However, I have been absent for some time on a mission.  Bringing this small group here is part of that business.”

 

“I see,” said Alistair.  “Then we have things to discuss I presume?”

 

“There are things you need to know, Alistair,” said Rielle, her voice barely hiding her urgency.  “We have a long story to tell.”  She turned to the three figures huddling behind Nathaniel.  “This is Dagna, whom I’m sure you remember from Orzammar.  The other dwarf is Temmerin, one of Nathaniel’s men.  The mage is Connor, your cousin.”

 

“Of course, I remember Dagna.  Welcome to both of you.”  Alistair smiled warmly at the dwarves before turning to Connor.  “And Connor!  You’ve grown enough that I didn’t recognize you.”  He clasped Connor’s shoulder and pulled him into a half-hug.  “Welcome back to Denerim.  Eamon will be happy to see you.”

 

“Thank you,” murmured Connor, blushing at the floor.

 

“Connor is an escaped apostate, Alistair,” said Rielle softly.  “I probably am considered one also by now.”

 

Alistair’s gaze sharpened and his face sobered with concern.  “And I assume this is also part of the long story?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Alistair took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.  “Then we shall discuss it, but not before dinner.  You all look tired and worn.  I’m assuming you’ve traveled across land on foot?”  At Nathaniel’s nod, Alistair turned to Kylon.  “Kylon, find them some rooms to freshen up in.  Tell Eamon that Connor is here and find Zevran.”

 

“Zevran is here?” Rielle looked up quickly at the assassin’s name, as Kylon took his leave.

 

“Yes.  He came here several months ago, after Anora was murdered.”  Alistair’s face softened.  “I owe him… much.”

 

His words surprised Rielle.  Alistair and Zevran had spent much of the Blight vying for her attention, although Zevran had stepped aside respectfully after Rielle had made her choice.  When they had all parted after the wedding, Zevran and Alistair were polite to each other, but they were hardly close friends.

 

“He will undoubtedly be thrilled to see you and Leliana,” continued Alistair.  “But go and freshen up, and we will all meet over dinner.  Zevran is with my son, Duncan, and probably is just as dirty.”  He laughed.  “Duncan keeps him as busy as the Crows ever did!”

 

As servants showed them to their rooms, Rielle smiled to herself at the thought of Zevran playing with Alistair’s son.  It warmed her heart to think that Zevran was here, helping Alistair and his family.  _Which is what I_ _should have been doing,_ she thought guiltily.  _I wonder how much Zevran has changed?_

 _###_

 _  
_

At first sight, it didn't appear that Zevran had changed at all.  He greeted Rielle and Leliana with a lazy smile and kissed them on both cheeks, flirting as unabashedly as always.

 

"My dear Warden, you look absolutely ravishing and younger than ever.  And Leliana of the sweet voice and flaming hair!  Has no man yet been ensnared by your beautiful singing?"

 

Leliana giggled and leaned forward conspiratorially.  "Not yet, but I'm hoping to corner our handsome Warden Commander soon!"

 

"Ah, indeed?"  Zevran slid a curious glance toward Nathaniel, who was already sitting at the table.  "He is quite handsome, and what an exquisite nose!  I wish you the best of

luck, my dear friend."

 

Leliana lifted an inquiring eyebrow.  "Well, what's got into you, Zev?  I'm astonished you aren't inviting yourself into a threesome or at the very least, trying to catch Nate's eye for yourself!"

 

"He's probably hatching a plan to land me in his bed instead," chuckled Rielle, with a fond smile at the assassin.

 

Zevran placed his hand dramatically over his heart.  "Oh, but I'm wounded that two

such good friends would think me capable of such fiendish thoughts!"

 

"Ah, Zev, how I've missed you!" laughed Leliana, giving him a swift hug as the three of them turned to the others waiting for them at the table.

 

Rielle seated herself beside Alistair at his invitation and took a moment to look around the table.  Connor sat next to her with Eamon at his other side.  Rielle was pleased to see the elderly seneschal give Connor a friendly pat on the shoulder.  All seemed well between them.  Nathaniel and Leliana sat next to Eamon, followed by Temmerin and Dagna.  Rielle was surprised to see Zevran at Alistair's left; neither seemed the least bit uncomfortable with the other.

 

Dinner was full of laughter and light talk.  Nathaniel brought Alistair up-to-date on the affairs of the Wardens, and Zevran entertained them with tales of his exploits in Antiva after he had returned from the Blight.  The fire crackled merrily in the hearth as they ate, and it matched the warmth in Rielle's heart at seeing her friends together again.

 

Once the food was cleared away, the atmosphere grew somber.  Nathaniel started by telling the story of his trek to the Dark Roads, and how Hawke and her friends had rescued Temmerin and himself.  Leliana could see the tightening of his jaw and the pain in his eyes when he spoke of losing the rest of his men.  Alistair discerned his anguish and offered what comfort he could.

 

"I'm sure you did all that was possible Nathaniel.  Their deaths were unfortunate, but your reason for investigating the thaig was valid."

 

Leliana spoke up then and explained her mission from the Divine, and how she had met up with Nathaniel in Kirkwall.

 

"We hoped that Rielle might be able to help us find answers about the red lyrium, but I think we found more questions at the Tower than solutions."

 

Rielle took up the story then, informing Alistair of Greagoir's replacement by the strict Lutherain.  When she reached the story of Connor's encounter with the red lyrium, she turned to look at the young mage at her side.

 

"Tell them what happened to you, Connor.  Leave nothing out."

 

Glancing sheepishly at his father, Connor told them how he had snuck into Rielle's office and touched the dangerous lyrium.  Eamon frowned as Connor described his battle with the power of the lyrium and the results of his journey into the Fade.

 

"So the raw lyrium contains a demon that may have contaminated my son?"

 

"No, we don't think so," replied Rielle.  "The lyrium acts on the mind in ways that can corrupt it, but it is not sentient in and of itself.  Connor has discovered a way to master it to his will, but I would be hesitant to allow another mage to attempt it."

 

Connor's face lit up with enthusiasm.  "The potential is astounding!  This may allow magi  to communicate over great distances with only their minds, just as the Tevinter did with the Eluvians!"

 

"Does this have something to do with why Lutherain has branded both of you as apostates?"  Alistair looked toward Rielle with concern.

 

"What?"  Eamon jerked forward in his seat.  "Connor, are you in trouble?"

 

 _He didn't tell him_ , thought Rielle, grimly.  "Let me finish my story."  She told them about Connor's apprehension by Lutherain and his subsequent rescue by Nate and Leliana, which led to Leliana's tale of her conversation with Lutherain.

 

"I suspect that the Divine is trying to make trouble in the Circle Tower and possibly may be encouraging Meredith in Kirkwall," said Leliana.  "I just don't know _why_."

 

Alistair rubbed the stubble on his jaw and chanced a look at Zevran.  The elf gave a short nod, and Alistair turned back to the group.  "This news about the Divine disturbs me because Zev and I believe that Orlais is behind Anora's death."  He proceeded to tell them about the assassination and Zevran's arrival, along with the information Zevran had gleaned from the Crows.  He finished with their trip to Kirkwall and the doomed attempt to ally with Meredith.

 

"It's certainly possible that all of this is tied together, and it bothers me," he said.  "I don't like the idea of the Divine supporting a crackdown on magi when they haven't done anything to warrant it."

 

"The Chantry has long wanted to repress magi, Alistair.  They are just being more open about it now," said Rielle.

 

"It's wrong," said Leliana, clenching her fists.  "Our job... _their_ job... should be to protect the magi's rights while watching over them.  They are as much the Divine's people as the reverend mothers and the Templars."

 

"They are _my_ people," stated Alistair.  "I will not allow Lutherain to control them like animals."

 

"That will provoke the Chantry, Alistair," warned Eamon.

 

"They are provoking _me_ , Eamon."  Alistair jerked his chin in Connor's direction.  "Will you allow them to make Connor Tranquil?"

 

"Absolutely not," said Eamon.  He laid his hand on Connor’s arm reassuringly, and the young mage looked at him gratefully.

 

"Then we have some work to do."

 

"Lutherain will not release his control willingly," said Rielle.  "He believes firmly in the sovereignty of the Chantry."

 

"If words will not persuade him, perhaps a blade or two will?"  Zevran's honeyed voice held an edge of steel, and his accompanying smile was just as dangerous.

 

“Perhaps it would be best to discuss it tomorrow after we are well-rested,” said Nathaniel.  “Fresh minds make better decisions.”

 

“Very true,” said Alistair.  “I’ve been remiss in my manners.  I’m sure all of you are exhausted from your journey and would like to sleep.”  He pushed back his chair and stood.  “Tomorrow we will meet and consider our options.”

 

Zevran offered Rielle his arm and walked her back to her chambers.  “I am truly sorry to hear that life has been difficult for you recently, my lovely Warden.”  They paused outside her door and she dropped her eyes at his concerned gaze.  “Are you well?  I was troubled to hear that you had left the Wardens and returned to the Circle, considering your feelings about that oppressive place.”  He reached to touch her cheek gently.  “And you are so pale… what happened to the robust woman who conquered an archdemon?”

 

Rielle blinked back tears.  “So much happened, Zevran.  I hurt you… I hurt Alistair.  And then I met someone who hurt me.”  She laughed bitterly.  “I deserved it, I guess, but after he left, I couldn’t stay at Vigil’s Keep.  I thought maybe I could do some good at the Circle… make things better there for the magi.  But I failed.”

 

Warm arms encircled her waist, drawing her into Zevran’s embrace as tears began to fall.  “ _Mi querida_ , you have always taken everyone’s burdens on your shoulders.  Let them go.  You can only do so much.”

 

She burrowed into the familiar scent of leather and spice.  “I’m sorry, Zevran… for what I did to both you and Alistair.”

 

“No harm was meant, and it is all behind us now.  I assure you, my Warden, Alistair and I are fine.”  He stroked her hair soothingly.  “We will fix things now that we are together again, yes?  Lutherain will soon be put in his place, and the Circle will be freed.  All will be well.  You shall see.”

 

###

 

Leliana paced before the fireplace in her spacious room, pausing every so often to stare at the door before shaking her head and resuming her restless movements.  _Do I wait for him or go to his room?  Is he too tired from our travels?_ She was definitely _not_ tired, not after so much time spent daydreaming about a certain dark-haired, rugged archer whose kisses left her dizzy and hot with desire.  She longed for his touch against her skin, the hardness of his body against hers.  Could she have misread his feelings for her?

 

The knock at her door jarred her thoughts, and she almost stumbled against the nearby divan in her surprise.  Running her fingers nervously through her hair, she moved to open the door and suppressed a relieved sigh at the sight of Nathaniel still dressed in his dinner clothes.  His hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, but he had yet to shave the stubble from his jaw, and the resulting roughness leant an air of danger to his appearance.  Breathless with anticipation, she stepped back to let him inside.

 

“I apologize if I have intruded upon your rest….”  He made it no further, for suddenly her lips covered his and desperate fingers cupped his face, bringing him closer.  He moaned softly into her mouth, and she felt him tremble against her.

 

“You would be apologizing if you _hadn’t_ intruded,” she gasped as they broke apart.

 

“Leliana....”  He closed his eyes and swallowed.  “I’m not the most gentle of lovers….”  She realized at last that he was shuddering, not from nerves, but from restraint, and she reached up to lay her palm against his cheek.

 

“I don’t _want_ gentle, Nathaniel.  I want _you_.  All of you.  And I’m not as fragile as you think.”

 

His eyes opened, and she could see his pupils blown wide with need, his personal darkness flying in the face of her reassurance.  Without a sound, they were moving, his calloused hands gripping her upper arms hard enough to bruise as he pressed her flat against the wall.  Hard lips demanded entrance, and she yielded to him, drowning in the sensation of being _devoured_ , consumed by his hunger.  Feeling her knees going weak, she reached up and pulled the thong from his hair, burying her fingers into the glorious black locks and scratching at his scalp in encouragement.  He growled in response and one arm looped firmly around her waist, pulling her flush against his body, and she could feel the insistent bulge pressing into her thigh.

 

“ _Please_ ,” she whispered, rolling her hips forward, and he gasped open-mouthed into her throat at the contact.  She barely felt her legs move as he pushed her roughly toward the bed, nipping at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.  As they fell onto the sheets, Nathaniel was already tearing at her clothing, and she hurried to reciprocate, tossing his tunic on the floor carelessly.  The sight of his chest, strong pectorals covered with fine, dark hair, had her scrabbling, fingers tracing the lines of his ribs as she curled up to lap at a hardened nipple.  His moan pulled her forward even more, and her teeth closed firmly over the sensitive nub.

 

His hands jerked hard, and she felt the leather of her skirt’s waistband scrape painfully against her legs as he yanked it off, exposing her fully to his penetrating gaze.  He gripped her wrists firmly, pinning them above her head as his eyes raked her body freely.

 

“So beautiful,” he murmured, gravelly voice hoarse and ragged.  Keeping her arms immobile, he lowered his head to an aching breast and sucked the nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his lips until she mewled and arched her back wantonly.  Tongue and teeth traced a path of pleasure and pain down her stomach as she writhed helplessly beneath him, relinquishing her body as his to mark as he wished.  _Yours, I am yours_.  By the time he reached her groin, her legs were already spread and she could feel the wetness between her thighs.

 

He released her arms and hovered over the dark-red hair at her pubis, breathing in the scent of her musk and parting her thighs even further with his hands.  When finally, _finally_ , his tongue brushed her clit with just the lightest of touches, her entire body shivered and she arched back, gripping the sheets to ground herself.  He hummed in approval and began to lick long stripes of heat from her entrance to the tip of her vulva, reveling in the soft cries and trembling in her legs.  He hooked his hands under her knees and pushed them back against her chest, exposing the glistening wetness at her opening and lapping at it greedily until desperate fingers clawed at his hair, tugging at him urgently.

 

It had been so terribly _long_ since he had felt so wrapped up in a fog of desire, and if darkspawn had come crashing through the door, he never would have noticed.  There was nothing in his world at that moment except Leliana:  her taste, her smell, her moans of delight.  She was _his_ , and as he entered her at last, a primal cry of satisfaction erupted from his throat.  Then his inner beast took over, and he was driving into her with a ferocity that had intimidated the women in his past, but not Leliana.  Nails raked down his back, drawing blood, as her legs pulled him back into her again and again.  Sheer joy at being able to let go suffused his every sense, and he thrust wildly into her heat, the bed creaking dangerously beneath them.  When the end came, her head thrown back as she choked out a shout of ecstasy, his world condensed to a single point of unbearable pleasure and then obliterated, shattering as he pulsed deep within her core.

 

When life came into focus once more, he was lying on his side with Leliana curled into his chest, one leg thrown over his.  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, the beast inside quiet and sated.

 

“Did I hurt you?  Are you all right?”

 

She stroked the soft hairs on his chest and smiled into his sweat-dampened skin.  “I’m more than all right, Nate.  It was _perfect_.”

 

His relief was profound, the darkness within blown back by the light of her words.  Always he had feared becoming the monster that had been his father, his harshness during sex fueling his disquiet.  Leliana’s reassurance was a balm no one else had ever been able to provide.  Feeling lighter in heart than he had been in years, he lowered his cheek to her hair and followed her into a dreamless sleep.

 

 ###

 

Alistair closed the door to Duncan’s room quietly and moved down the hall to his own bedroom… _their_ bedroom.  Zevran had moved his meager belongings to Alistair’s room, an action that said more than words, coming from the assassin.  There were no more protests, no more subtle exits in the cold hours before dawn.  If Eamon was bothered by this, he wisely said nothing, and Alistair was grateful.  He preferred to stay on good terms with the seneschal, but he would not tolerate any more slurs against Zevran.

 

Zevran was sitting cross-legged on the bed with his eyes closed when Alistair entered.  He seemed oblivious and relaxed, but Alistair did not miss the dagger laying on the end table at arm’s reach.  It was difficult to imagine Zevran ever being unprepared.

 

Zevran stirred and opened his eyes as Alistair sat down next to him, resting tiredly against the headboard.

 

“Is all well with _mi_ _chico_?”

 

“He’s excited that we have visitors,” said Alistair, rubbing the back of his neck.  “But he finally fell asleep.  I saw you walk out with Rielle.  Is she okay?”

 

Zevran gracefully rose to his knees and straddled Alistair’s lap, brushing the warrior’s hands away from his aching neck and replacing them with his more trained fingers.  “She is drowning with worry, as always.”  He kneaded at the muscles in Alistair’s neck with a frown.  “The two of you are quite a pair, always carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.  _Tsk_.”

 

Alistair dropped his forehead to rest on Zevran’s shoulder and sighed in pleasure as Zevran worked at a particularly stubborn knot.  “I’m the King.  Do I have a choice?  And now some of my people are being treated like prisoners just because they have the misfortune to be magi.”

 

“The Knight Commander merely requires a harsh reminder, and things will fall back into place.”

 

“Somehow, I doubt it will be that easy.”  Alistair turned his head slightly and slid his tongue beneath the collar of Zevran’s shirt, smiling as he felt the assassin twitch.

 

“That is good because what is the fun in something being _easy_?”  Zevran’s fingers trailed up into Alistair’s close-cropped hair and scratched lightly.  “You must grow your hair longer, _amor_.  I cannot get a good grip with such short locks.”

 

“And why would you need to get a good grip, Zevran?”  Alistair slid down the headboard until he was flat on his back, pulling the Antivan down with him.

 

“Ah, but if I told you, that would ruin the surprise, would it not?”

 

“And then the fun would be spoiled.”  Zevran grinned at him as Alistair fisted his fingers in Zevran’s hair and pulled him down into a heated kiss.  Whatever worries might plague him, he had Zevran now.  The weight on his shoulders was no longer as heavy as it had once been, and that made all the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely zevgirl for her hard beta work!


	20. Chapter 20

Dust motes swirled in broken beams of sunlight that filtered through the stone pillars of the pathway leading from the Denerim Palace to the training yard.  The morning was unusually warm for the season, and the teasing breeze carried the promising scent of spring, still weeks away.  Rielle squinted as she glided over the paved stones and through the alternating stripes of light and shadow, wearing only a fur cloak over her woolen, winter robes.  The warmth lifted her spirits, or perhaps it came from being among old friends again.  She had slept better than she had in months, comforted by the assurance that Alistair would find a way to right the situation at the Circle.

 

There was to be a meeting after lunch to discuss their options.  Rielle had woken early, hoping to catch Alistair in private.  He had appeared happy to see her yesterday, but hadn’t it been her fault that he had been trapped in a loveless marriage?  It was her decision that Alistair should take the throne, and at the time it had seemed the right choice, in spite of her sadness that their relationship must end.  She had believed it was the best thing for Ferelden, but she hadn’t considered what was best for Alistair until the wedding.  Only then did she realize the full extent to what she had condemned him; the horror of it had driven her to Amaranthine without a backward glance.  An apology would be years too late, but she needed to give it… needed to know that resentment had not tarnished their friendship beyond repair.

 

Eamon had courteously informed her that Alistair was sparring with Zevran in the guards’ training yard, an early morning ritual that had been established upon Zevran’s appointment as bodyguard.

 

“Apparently, the assassin felt that Alistair had grown ‘too soft’ and needed practice.”  Eamon’s dry tone clearly stated that he disagreed.  “A king’s place is to make decisions, not participate in battle.  I don’t understand why Alistair needs to hone his warrior skills, but he listens to the elf more than _me_.”  Rielle hid her smile as Eamon walked off with a wounded sniff, his back stiff with righteous indignation.  She remembered his disdain for elves, and Zevran in particular, quite vividly.

 

Zevran and Alistair were alone in the fenced-in yard; the hour was too early for even Kylon to drag himself out of bed.  Rielle paused in the shadowed walkway, reluctant to intrude as she watched the two of them circle each other like alpha wolves fighting for dominance.  They made a striking pair:  Zevran’s golden hair whipping across his shoulders as he feinted and dodged Alistair’s attacks, Alistair’s armor flashing silver in the sun as he swung his greatsword in graceful arcs that parted the air with barely a whisper.  She could remember similar mock duels by the light of a campfire so many years ago, Zevran baiting Alistair with mocking jests that elicited a flurry of blind hacks from the furious warrior.  It had provided hours of entertainment in the evenings.

 

If either of them had lost their skill over the years, she could not detect it.  Zevran, older than both Alistair and Rielle, demonstrated exceptional grace and accuracy and showed no sign of age.  Indeed, the only difference she could discern was Zevran’s much longer hair, tied back in a simple leather thong rather than the braids she remembered.  Alistair was perhaps leaner, with a trace of gray at his temples and a few careworn lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before.  He seemed happy, however, laughing as Zevran danced around him, teasing with small jabs of his daggers.

 

In the end, Zevran smartly disarmed Alistair, but the larger man pulled the lithe elf on top of him as he fell to the cold ground.  Both panted from exertion, and Zevran murmured something too soft for Rielle to hear.  Alistair quirked his eyebrow, and at Zevran’s grin, he burst into deep-bellied laughter that shook the assassin straddling his chest.  Rielle smiled and started to move from the shadows to join the hilarity, but stopped frozen after two steps.  Shock brought one hand to her lips in amazed incredulity.

 

Still chuckling, Alistair had reached up to cup the back of Zevran’s head, gentle with his gauntleted hands, and was pulling Zevran down into a kiss.  Without any hesitation, Zevran stretched himself languidly over Alistair, stomach to stomach, and returned the kiss with obvious pleasure.  Clearly this was not something new or unexpected; they kissed with all the open sensuality of established lovers, completely unconcerned with anything else around them.  Rielle stepped quickly back behind the pillars, feeling embarrassingly like an intruder but unable to look away from the startling sight of two former rivals sharing such an intimate moment.

 

It wasn’t until Zevran reluctantly pulled back that she remembered where she was, and as the two men came to their feet, she melted back into the shadows and hurried into a nearby doorway.  Her cheeks blazed hot, and she leaned against the cool stone wall while she waited for her heart to stop hammering.  _How did this happen?_   As far as she knew, Alistair had never had any attraction toward men and had seemed embarrassed whenever the topic had arisen.  _Then again, he didn’t exactly have any luck with either me or Anora._   _But Zevran?  I would never have guessed…._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy boots approaching, and she just managed to straighten when Alistair came from around the corner, hair disheveled and smiling to himself.  He startled at the sight of Rielle but quickly recovered and rushed forward to gather her into a bear hug.  There was no sign of Zevran.

 

“Good morning!”  The scent of fresh sweat enveloped her, and suddenly realizing where he was coming from, Alistair pulled back quickly.  “Uh, sorry.  I was training with Zevran, and I probably smell like last week’s linen.”  He grinned sheepishly.  “I have to admit it’s been good for me though.  Before Zev came, I was turning into nug mush, but now I’m pretty much back to form.  Surrendering to Zev, as always.”

 

Rielle laughed, remembering how often Alistair had been taunted in camp for losing to an elf half his size.  “It’s hard to get the upper hand on Zevran.  But you’re still as handsome as ever, Alistair.”  Impulsively, she reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.  “You’re nothing like a nug.”

 

He flushed, boyish as always in his modesty.  “It’s really good to see you again, Rielle.  I’ve missed you.”  He looked away, and his next words came forward in a rush, tumbling over each other in their yearning to break free.  “I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time when you said I needed to marry Anora.  I thought… I thought that you wanted to be rid of me… that you were using Anora as an excuse.”

 

“Oh, Alistair….”  Tears burned her eyes, and she reached out to him.

 

“No, let me finish.  I’ve wanted to say this for years.”  He took her hand and touched her cheek gently.  “I’ve finally realized that it must have hurt you as much as it did me.  You were doing what you thought was right, just like you always did, even when you left me behind to fight the archdemon.  I knew how selfless you were, but I chose to ignore it because it hurt.  So… I’m sorry.  For driving you away.”

 

She shook her head wordlessly and leaned her forehead against the cool, steel armor covering his chest.  “I’m sorry too, Alistair.  I left you with a woman who married you only for the crown.  I was thinking of Ferelden, but I should have been thinking of you.  What _you_ wanted.  I’ve been so afraid to come back and face what I did to you, so I hid in Amaranthine and then in the Circle.  Can you ever forgive me?”

 

“I already have.”  He rested his cheek in the softness of her hair, and they stayed like this for a long moment before Rielle finally pulled away, brushing at her wet cheeks.

 

“Are you happy, Alistair?  That’s what matters most to me.”

 

He grinned suddenly, and the sunshine seemed bright again.  “Yes.  I, uh, found someone.”  He looked down at the paved stones, awkward in a way that made Rielle want to hug him again.

 

“Zevran.”  When he shot her a startled look, she bit her lip in an apologetic smile.  “I’m sorry.  I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I was looking for you, and I saw you in the yard with Zevran….”

 

“Oh.”  Understanding brought a flush to his cheeks.  “You saw that.”  He chuckled and shook his head.  “Well, it’s not exactly a secret anymore, I guess.  We don’t flaunt it, but we don’t try to hide it either.”  His face hardened.  “I won’t pretend that what we have doesn’t exist, even if it bothers certain people.”

 

“I’m assuming Eamon hasn’t taken to your… relationship then?”

 

“No, he’s still as prejudicial as ever.  But he understands that I won’t be moved on this.”  His face softened.  “Zevran gives me balance in my life.  I don’t know any other way to describe it.  And he’s wonderful with Duncan.  The kid loves him already.”

 

“As do you.”  She smiled up at him.  “Alistair, I’m so happy for you both.  Really.”

 

“Thanks.”  He ran his fingers through his hair in an all-too-familiar gesture.  “I’m going to go get a bath before I scare off everyone else.  We’ll talk after lunch, okay?  I promise we’ll get the Circle back to rights somehow.”

 

“I know.”  She looped her arm through his, and they headed into the shadows of the palace.

 

 ###

 

“There has to be a better way to take back the Tower without a full assault.”  Alistair rubbed his eyes tiredly and then refocused his attention on the people sitting at the table around him.  He, Nathaniel, Leliana, Rielle, Zevran, Connor, Eamon, Dagna, and Temmerin had gathered in a large hall that Alistair used for diplomatic meetings with the banns and arls.  A massive, oval, oaken table dominated the room and was currently holding various mugs of water and ale for its occupants.  Everyone looked strained and tired after an hour of debating their options.  “Those templars are as much my people as the magi.  I prefer not to kill them.”

 

Zevran had remained quiet throughout the discussion but now leaned forward.  “Perhaps stealth is required here instead of weapons.”  He looked at Rielle.  “Would any of the templars be loyal to you?  Or at the very least, _not_ fond of the Knight Commander’s view of magi?”

 

Rielle tapped her lips thoughtfully.  “Yes, I managed to make some friends during my time there.  There were those who agreed with Greagoir and I that the best solution to the tension was mutual respect.”

 

“Then some might be willing to help us, yes?”  At their looks of confusion, he lifted an eyebrow.  “I believe the proper term is mutiny.”

 

“You think the templars might help us against Lutherain?”  Alistair rubbed his chin, scratching at the stubble that covered his jaw.  “Rielle?”

 

“I doubt that they would be willing to cross their Commander,” she replied.  “Unless… unless he was no longer in charge.”  A slow smile stretched her lips.  “If we could take Lutherain out of the picture, many of the templars would probably turn to their king for guidance.”

 

Alistair nodded.  “Leliana, is there no chance of persuading Lutherain to listen to me?”

 

“He believes the templars to be above all authority except that of the Divine,” she said.  “And it sounds like she’s encouraging his treatment of the magi.”

 

“So if we capture Lutherain and imprison him, then we stand a chance of putting the Tower back in order,” said Nathaniel.

 

“We’ll still have a fight on our hands,” said Connor.  “Some of the templars are just as bad as Lutherain.  They will fight to free him and put the magi back under their control.”

 

“At least it’s better than an outright attack,” sighed Alistair.  “Connor, are you still in touch with Petra?”

 

“Yes.  I check in with her every night.”

 

“We’ll have to let her know what we are planning and then….”  Alistair’s words were cut short by a loud knock on the chamber’s door. 

 

Kylon entered and gave Alistair an apologetic bow.  “Sorry, Your Majesty, but there are visitors here who insist on seeing you immediately.”

 

“Who are they, Kylon?”

 

“The leader states that she is the Champion of Kirkwall.”

 

Alistair gave Zevran an incredulous look to which the assassin merely raised his eyebrows.  “Show them in, Kylon.”

 

“What is Hawke doing here?” wondered Nathaniel.

 

“So many visitors in such a short time,” said Zevran.  “You have become quite popular, Alistair.”

 

“Somehow I think I’d rather not be,” said Alistair.

 

They all rose from their seats as a bedraggled, weary group of travelers entered.  Lia Hawke was clearly the leader, standing tall in beautiful, though dirty, mage robes and flanked by a dour elf with white hair and silver tattoos.  _Fenris_ , remembered Zevran.  Behind them was the beardless elf, Varric, and Isabela, who shot him a jaunty wink.  A dark-haired, bulky warrior in templar armor and a thin, waif-like Dalish mage were looking around the chamber curiously.  Zevran didn’t recognize them.  Further back, huddling near the door was a tall man in a tattered blue coat with feather pauldrons.  A dark cowl hid his face, but he carried a staff that announced his status as mage.

 

Alistair stepped forward with outstretched hands.  “Welcome to Ferelden, Champion.  Or I should say, welcome home.”

 

Zevran approached Lia with a toothy smile, and with a flourish, he kissed her hand.  “It is good to see you again, Serah Hawke.”  A low growl from Fenris provoked nothing more than a widening grin from the assassin.  Lia gave Fenris a warning glare, and the elf looked away sulkily.  _Still broody and possessive_ , thought Zevran.

 

Nathaniel gave Hawke a nod.  “You seem well-known already, Serah.  Welcome to Denerim.”

 

Hawke smiled wanly.  “I apologize for the interruption.  We have come a long way to give King Alistair news, and I didn’t feel that we should wait.”

 

“Then by all means, give it.”  Alistair’s face took on a more serious appearance, worry apparent in the set of his mouth.

 

Hawke took a deep breath and leaned against her staff for support.  “Kirkwall burns, Your Majesty.  The Circle is fallen, and Knight Commander Meredith is dead.  The Chantry is utterly destroyed.”

 

A shocked silence blanketed the room.  Rielle gripped the edge of the table, steadying herself.  “The Circle… fallen?  What of Orsino?”

 

“He’s dead,” said Lia flatly.  “The magi have fled the Gallows, and the templars are leaderless, unless Cullen has taken over Meredith’s role.  The Grand Cleric and all who were with her in the Chantry are dead.”

 

“What happened?”  Alistair hadn’t moved or taken his eyes from Lia’s face.

 

“The Chantry was blown to pieces by a mage,” said Fenris, his deep voice echoing into the silence.  “Meredith retaliated, and the magi fought back.  There was a battle.”

 

“We defended the magi and won,” said Lia.  “Meredith went insane and threatened even her own people, so we killed her.  We had to flee the city after that.”  She bowed her head and closed her eyes.  “Many died, and I don’t know what happened after we left.  We came straight here because you had told me that you would offer Kirkwall aid if it was needed.”  She looked back at Alistair.  “Kirkwall is in need, Your Majesty.”

 

Eamon was horrified.  “If the Circle has fallen and the Chantry gone, the Divine will want retribution.  There will be trouble.”

 

“Who destroyed the Chantry and why?”  Rielle’s voice was almost a whisper.  She couldn’t even begin to conceive of what would happen across Thedas once word of this got out.

 

“I did.”  The mage standing by the door walked forward slowly, removing his cowl.  Blond hair hung loosely around the pale, gaunt face of a man who had haunted her dreams for so long.  A man whom she had loved.

 

“ _Anders_.”  Her voice caught in her throat, strangled by wonder and grief both.  She started to reach out to him but stopped after a few steps.  His eyes… they were hollow shells from which an inner fire burned, an emptiness and despair she had never seen before from the light-hearted mage she remembered.

 

“Anders?”  Nathaniel frowned at his former friend in confusion.  “You blew up the Chantry?”

 

Anders would not look away from Rielle.  His hands opened and closed helplessly as he faced the woman he had loved and left.  “It was the only way.  The world needs to know what goes on in the Circles, about the way magi are imprisoned.”  His voice became almost pleading.  “You understand, don’t you Rielle?  We talked about this long ago.”

 

“We never discussed killing people.”  Her heart was hammering, and she felt relieved when Zevran came to stand behind her, one hand on her shoulder in support.

 

“It was justice.”  Anders bowed his head, suddenly too weary to speak more.

 

“Was it Justice?” asked Nathaniel sharply.  “Or you?”

 

“Enough.”  Alistair stepped in front of Rielle and gestured toward Hawke.  “You bring us grave tidings, Serah Hawke.  We will have to hear the full story and discuss what this will mean, but I think your party needs rest first.  You all look weary, and I would be ungracious to press for more until you’ve had time to freshen up and eat.”  He motioned to Kylon who had stood at the back of the room waiting.  As the guard commander came forward, Alistair gave Anders an apologetic look.  “I’m sorry, but if you truly committed this crime, I must keep you under guard for the time being.”

 

Anguished, Rielle grabbed Alistair’s arm.  “Alistair, no!”

 

He patted her hand reassuringly.  “It’s only temporary, Rielle, and he will be confined to one of our guest rooms, not the dungeon.”

 

“It’s okay.  I understand.”  Anders squared his shoulders and nodded at Alistair.  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”  He didn’t look back as Kylon led him from the chamber.

 

“I think we could all use a break,” said Alistair.  “Let’s meet here again after dinner.  Serah Hawke, if you and your friends will follow me, we’ll see about getting you situated.”  As he moved to the door, he shot Zevran a meaningful glance and tilted his head toward the distraught Rielle.  As the others followed Alistair from the room, Zevran placed a gentle arm around Rielle’s waist and led her after them.

 

“Come, _mi amiga_.  Let us go relax somewhere, just the two of us, hmm?”

 

 ###

 

Rielle sat before the fireplace in her room with her knees drawn up to her chin, staring pensively into the flames.  She could hear Zevran behind her opening a bottle of wine, followed by the gurgle of liquid being poured.  He seated himself beside her in a cross-legged fashion and handed her the goblet made of sparkling crystal that fractured the firelight into rainbows.  She swirled the stem, watching the colors flash against the blood red of the wine.

 

“Drink, _mi bella dama_.  Wine can be good medicine when needed.”

 

His soft, accented voice was as warm as the wine and the fire, but she still felt cold, a chill that emanated from inside.  She rested her cheek on one knee and drank in the comforting sight of Zevran, the flickering shadows playing across his tanned face and golden locks.

 

“Your hair has gotten so long, but other than that, you look exactly the same.”  She smiled as he reached back to touch his hair self-consciously.

 

“I had meant to cut it, but Alistair has forbidden it.”  He grinned and stretched his legs out, leaning back on his elbows.  “Apparently, our king has an obsession with long hair.”  He turned to assess her expression.  “Alistair told you about us, yes?”

 

“He did.”  She reached out to take his hand in hers.  “He seems so happy, Zev.  I’m glad for both of you.”

 

He chuckled and squeezed her hand.  “Who would have thought?  And to be perfectly truthful, I’m still not entirely sure who seduced who.”

 

That _did_ make her laugh, and it felt wonderful, a retaliation against the despair in her heart.  “Someone told me once that fate is such a tricky whore.”

 

“But such an _alluring_ whore, no?  Life is unpredictable, and that makes it most interesting.”  He rolled on his side and fixed her with a searching gaze.  “Some surprises are welcome and some are not.  Is Anders a welcome surprise, _querida_?”

 

She buried her face back into her knees.  “I… don’t know.  I loved him, Zev, and he left me.  I thought I was past that, but then… when I saw him….”  A broken sob clawed its way up her throat.

 

Strong arms pulled her close brought her head against his chest.  The scent of sage prickled her nose and calmed her agitation.  “Love is never a simple thing.  It twists through our lives and leaves its touch in our blood like a potent, but wonderful, poison.  It does not fade with time, but lies dormant until the blood lights with fire once again.”  Zevran thought of Alistair, of hazel eyes that spoke volumes whenever they met his.  “We can choose to ignore it, or we can accept all it has to offer.  This Anders… perhaps he had a reason for leaving?”

 

“Nathaniel said he left because he was afraid.  He allowed Justice, a spirit we met in Amaranthine, to merge with him.  They are one now.”

 

Zevran frowned.  “An abomination?”

 

“I don’t know really.  Remember how Wynne carried a spirit in her body?  Maybe this is the same, and _she_ wasn’t an abomination.”

 

“Hmm.  And are you afraid of this… Anders-Justice?”

 

 _Am I?_   She remembered the terrible desolation in Anders’s eyes, the pleading in his voice.  “No, I do not fear him.  He has changed, but he’s still Anders.”  A strange calm filled her heart.  “And I still love him.”

 

“Then go to him, _querida_.  Tell him this.”  And Zevran was right, she knew.  He always was.

 

 ###

 

Alistair waited quietly in the entrance of the hallway that led to the confined mage’s room.  He had seen to getting quarters for all of Hawke’s party and then gone in search of Zevran and Rielle.  Her anguished cry still rung in his ears.  _So that is the mage she loves… and he blew up a Chantry.  What an awful mess._ He rubbed his forehead tiredly, feeling a dull ache beginning to bloom behind his eyes.  Perhaps he should take a nap before dinner; it promised to be a long night.

 

Zevran appeared, silent in his approach, and Alistair wondered fleetingly how he always managed to move so quietly.  He had come from the mage’s room alone.

 

“She wished to see him?”  Alistair glanced down the hall to the closed door flanked by guard.

 

“They have matters to discuss.”  Zevran sighed and followed Alistair’s gaze.  “Perhaps this will be the first step to healing raw wounds.  They should never be left to fester.”

 

“No,” Alistair agreed, remembering his own pain when Rielle had left him.  He reached out and pulled Zevran against him, suddenly needing the reassuring contact of his lover.  Zevran made a soft noise and leaned into the embrace, resting his forehead on Alistair’s broad shoulder.

 

“Things are changing, aren’t they?”  Alistair leaned his head back against the cold, unrelenting stone and closed his eyes.  “First Rielle and then Hawke bring us bad news.  The Chantry and the Circle are practically at war with each other, and how will this affect Thedas?  And how does Orlais figure into all this?”

 

“I suspect we are much closer to those answers than we would like, _mi amor_.”  Zevran pressed warm lips against the pulse in Alistair’s neck and felt the warrior shudder in response.

 

“I think…”  Alistair’s voice had grown suddenly thick.  “I think we should retire for a bit and rest for tonight.  There are a lot of decisions to be made.”

 

“Indeed.”  Zevran smiled as he felt a growing bulge between Alistair’s legs.  “Perhaps a little exercise first to help us relax?”  His own breath hitched as Alistair slid a hot palm over the back of Zevran’s thigh.

 

“Bedroom.  Now.”  Alistair flexed his muscles and pushed them both off the wall.

 

“As you command, Your Majesty.”


	21. Chapter 21

Anders wondered if it truly was possible to read your fortune from your palms.  There were seers in Rivain who claimed this was an ancient art, which required years of training, and a gift:  the power to see beyond the Veil.  The Circle sneered at such tales, shucking the so-called skills of seers in the same cart as the rubbish they associated with court performers.  He had traveled more than most Circle magi, however, and had learned to give myths a bit more credence than they were perhaps due.  After all, hadn’t he once believed, with all the adamancy of the inexperienced, that it was impossible to allow a spirit into your body without being consumed?

 

Anders scrutinized his hands with as much concentration as he had given his manifestos.  When had the criss-crossing lines become numerous enough to resemble a map?  Even the backs of his hands held deep creases he never remembered seeing before.  Perhaps a talented seer would find a story within the wrinkles of his calloused skin, but he found it difficult to believe anyone could untangle the mess of his future.  He hadn’t even expected to still be alive.

 

The explosion of the Chantry was supposed to have been the end.  He had never thought Hawke would spare him; he didn’t deserve to be spared.  He had betrayed his best friend and killed many people in an act of defiance, a plea for attention.  His only purpose, his sole hope was to bring about a confrontation, and he had succeeded.  As the sky glowed with burning embers, he waited for darkness claim him, but death did not come that day.  He was glad of the reprieve and the chance to fight the templars at Hawke’s side, and victory had tasted so sweet.  When they arrived in Ferelden, he was calm and prepared, ready for his fate at King Alistair’s hands.  He had fulfilled his purpose; he was at peace.  Then he had seen Rielle… and stepped forward to hear her cry his name.

 

It had been a shock to see her there standing behind Alistair.  Almost, he had lost his courage when even death had not fazed him.  For the space of a heartbeat, he had turned toward the door, every muscle poised to flee before she could see his face.  But, no.  He had run from her once before and rued it ever since.  It was time to face the woman he had loved and who still commanded his heart.  So, he had come forward and allowed his heart to bleed out in the wake of her anguish.  Now he was here, in a generously-sized room for a prisoner, sitting in a luxurious armchair by a fire, which did nothing to warm his weary soul.

 

 _I should never have come.  What do I have to offer her except more pain?_ He dropped his head into his hands and dug gnawed fingernails into his hair.  Justice wasn’t even around anymore to offer an opinion.  Ever since the battle with the templars, the spirit had vanished into a corner so deep, Anders could barely sense him.  He wondered if Justice felt any guilt for the deaths they had caused.  Maybe he was busy plotting their next move in case Anders escaped a death sentence.  Anders didn’t know whether to be piqued at his desertion or relieved at the reprieve.

 

A knock sounded at the door, but Anders didn’t turn around as it opened.  He had refused dinner earlier, and the guards were probably making another attempt to fatten up the calf for execution.

“You guys are so kind to keep checking on my welfare, but I’m really not interested in being your entertainment, okay?”

 

“How about just offering some kind of explanation?”  The low, sultry voice he had heard only in dreams for so many years brought him lurching to his feet as he spun around.  His heart froze at the sight of the woman standing just inside the room, her arms crossed in front of her silky indigo robes.  Her raven-black hair rippled in loose waves over shoulders hunched with determination, and her face was set in the same expression he remembered seeing when she had faced the nobles of Amaranthine.  He suddenly felt like a small boy caught with his hands in the forbidden cookie pot.

 

“Rielle….”

 

“You _ran_ from me, Anders.  Do you have any idea how that _felt_?  What you did to me?”  Her eyes flashed with a violet fire… Maker, but he had missed that smoldering look that only she could produce.  He wasn’t foolish enough to believe it came from passion, however.

 

“I didn’t know what else to do.”  His voice broke.  All the strength that had carried him through years in Kirkwall, carried him through the task he had to accomplish… none of it could aid him here.  “When I came back to myself and saw what I done to those men who came after me, I was afraid of what it would mean for your safety.”

 

“I was the _Warden Commander_ , Anders.  Do you really think I was concerned for my safety?”  She took a step forward, flipping her hair back with a vicious jerk of her head.  “I fought an Archdemon, faced a noble rebellion, and killed the Mother.  Do you think I couldn’t handle what you did to them?  They tried to harm one of _my_ Wardens.  They deserved what they received.”  She slashed one hand in front of her in negation.  “No, Anders.  You feared how I would feel about what you had become.  So instead of _trusting_ me, you ran!”

 

“Nathaniel told you.”  It wasn’t a question.

 

“He did, but I still don’t understand.  Is Justice _there_?  With you?”

 

“He’s here, within my mind.  Sometimes, he… takes over when it’s necessary.  I don’t really know how to describe it.”

 

“Can I talk to him?”  She was curious now, puzzled at exactly how much of Anders was _Anders_.

 

“He’s… quiet now.  Has been since the Chantry incident.  I haven’t been able to talk to him.”

 

“Why, Anders?  Why did you do it?”

 

“It seemed like the only way at the time.”  He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead tiredly.  “Things were getting so much worse for magi in Kirkwall.  Meredith was… she was seeing things that weren’t there.  Persecuting them.  Nobody would do _anything_.  I had to… _force_ something to happen.  So they would see.”  When he raised his head, Rielle was shocked to see tears streaking his cheeks.  “I know that people died.  I’m prepared to accept my death as payment.”

 

“ _No_.  Anders….”  She didn’t remember moving her feet, but suddenly she was there, cradling his head in her hands as he buried his face in her shoulder.  His body shook against her, and Maker, but he was so _thin_.  _What has happened to you, my love?_

“I never expected to see you again.”  His breath was ragged as his fingers dug into her back, clinging as if she would disappear at his next heartbeat.  “I thought I would be killed for what I did, but Hawke was merciful.  She brought me here, and then when I _saw_ you….”

 

She broke then.  An Archdemon couldn’t defeat her, and the Mother hadn’t destroyed her, but Anders had held her heart in his hands, and he held it still.  Her lips found his, and it was if the years had never separated them.  She could taste the salt of his regret in his kiss, and her tears mingled with his, more potent than any healing potion.

 

Fumbling fingers tossed aside heavy robes, and they fell back on the room’s only cot, uncaring of the cramped space.  Heated touches sought to salvage what words could not, and embers long dormant flared to life as they came together in tangled, twisted sheets.  When Anders entered Rielle, it was coming home to all that he had forgotten, all that he had repressed.  There was no justice here and no vengeance, only love and forgiveness.  The healer, unable to cure himself, was healed at last.

 

###

 

_There is a certain image one sees when he thinks of a blood mage.  Some imagine the final, twisted form of an abomination, a mage who has fallen to the demon within.  Others visualize a powerful magister with eyes of crimson evil, spreading domination wherever he walks.  Few would think of a slight, Dalish elf with wide, curious eyes, pixie-cut hair, and a smile that is sweeter than pure sugarcane._

_Who can say what initially drove Merrill to draw her own blood for the first time?  As far as I know, it is not a story she ever told.  I can say with complete honesty that I never saw her use it for ill, and it certainly made all the difference in allowing us to rescue the scattered and pursued magi of Thedas during the time following the fall of_ _Kirkwall_ _’s Gallows.  Whatever her reasons, it was the grace of the Maker that led her to Hawke and then to me._

_Did Merrill ever succumb to her demon?  I have never found anyone who knows.  She vanished after the_ _Battle_ _of West Hill, and it was assumed that she returned to the Dalish.  I hope they welcomed her and that she finally found the peace she sought with the past._

\--From the Journals of First Mage Representative, Connor Guerrin

 

Connor’s flaming hair stood up on end from the numerous times he had run his fingers through it.  The dark circles under his eyes demonstrated the lack of sleep, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate on the tome before him.  Rielle had scolded him for walking the Fade every night and ordered him to take a hiatus, but he secretly continued to use the red lyrium each evening.  His determination had only increased with the news from the Kirkwall.  Last night was the first time he had reached for the minds of magi from beyond Ferelden.  He had come very close to succeeding until he was woken by the snores of Temmerin, which persisted through the night.

 

Dagna sat next to him at the Palace library’s table, muttering under her breath as she flipped through the brittle pages of an ancient journal.  The two of them had spent their free time since arriving in Denerim searching for any information they could find about ancient thaigs and the raw lyrium that had been mined back then.  The perky dwarf lamented the large distance to Orzammar, where the Memories recorded much of dwarven history.  Fortunately, the Palace library held at least as many books as the Circle Tower, and they hoped to find some mention of how lyrium had been used in the time before the first Blight.

 

Connor heard a creak and looked up to see a thin elf dressed in Dalish clothing enter the library.  She winced at the loud sound and glanced at them apologetically.

 

“So sorry.  I was looking for a book to read, and they said I could find the library in here.”

 

Connor smiled tiredly.  “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”  He gestured at the bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling.  “There are enough books here to keep you occupied for a lifetime.”

 

Her large, shining eyes widened in pleased amazement.  “Oh, this is wonderful!  I’ve never seen so many books, not even in Kirkwall’s Chantry!  I’ve always thought the Dalish should keep a written record of their history, but they prefer the spoken word.”

 

“Are you a Keeper?”  Connor eyed the staff slung across the elf’s back.

 

“No.”  The woman’s face crumpled and she looked away.  “I was the Keeper’s First… once.  But that is past now.”  She approached their table and glanced down at their books.  “I’m Merrill, by the way.”

 

“I’m Connor, and this is Dagna.”  The petite dwarf at his side gave Merrill a warm smile.  “We’re just doing some research about raw lyrium.”

 

“Oh, really?  That sounds very interesting.”  Merrill’s gaze swept over the walls covered with rows of books.  “I wonder if there would be any information here on Eluvians.”

Connor and Dagna both paused and exchanged a glance.  “Why do you wish to know about Eluvians?” asked Dagna.

 

“Because I have a piece of one, and at one time, I hoped to reconstruct one.”  Merrill reached into a pouch at her waist and withdrew a shard of glass as large as her hand.  “I couldn’t part with it when we left Kirkwall, so I brought it with me.”

 

“May I see it?”  Dagna was almost trembling in her excitement as Merrill place it in her tiny hand.  Connor leaned over to examine it as well.  “The Tevinters used Eluvians to communicate across distance with each other,” said the dwarf.  “They hoped to discover the secret of how the elves used it as a portal, but they never did.”

 

“What if the elves had access to raw lyrium?” wondered Connor.

 

“The elves of Arlathan used lyrium and the powers of the Fade,” said Merrill.  The first magisters of Tevinter learned how to use lyrium from elves they captured.  Many of the magical artifacts the Imperium used, such as the Eluvians, came from Arlathan, but the magisters failed to understand how the artifacts were made to function.”  She touched the mirror fragment in Dagna’s hand.  “So much of Arlathan’s lore has been lost.  I have been searching for years to learn the Eluvian’s power, but I’ve gotten no farther than Tevinter.  I thought blood magic was the answer….”

 

“You’re a blood mage?”  Connor stared at her in shock.

 

“Yes.”  Merrill shifted uncomfortably.  “You’re not going to call me a demon, are you?”

 

“No,” said Connor.  “I’m just surprised.  I didn’t think the Dalish allowed blood magic.”

 

“They don’t.  I wasn’t well-liked by my clan.”  Merrill bit her lower lip, and her eyes became even shinier.

 

Connor decided to change the subject.  “Would you want to help us learn more about how primeval lyrium was used?  It might help you learn more about Eluvians, and maybe you know something that could assist us.”

 

The elf smiled brightly and sat down across from them.  “Oh, yes!  That would be just wonderful.  Perhaps we can find a connection between the two!”

 

The vague beginnings of an idea crept into Connor’s mind.  _If we could get the Eluvian working again… who knows what we could do?_

 ###

 

Alistair sat quietly at the same table they had sat at yesterday and waited for everyone to arrive at the meeting he had called.  He had talked with Zevran long into the night after they had sated their physical desire.  This morning he had called Nathaniel into his office and the two of them had a long discussion.  He could only hope the decisions he had made would prove to be the right ones.

 

Zevran sauntered in and dropped lazily into the chair next to Alistair, offering him a lecherous smile.  Alistair grinned back and proceeded to welcome the others as they took their seats.  Rielle and Anders were the last to arrive, flanked by Anders’s guards, who escorted him to an empty chair at the end of the table.  Leliana scooted over to make room for Rielle, who pulled up another chair next to Anders’s.  Alistair could not help but notice the serene calm that existed between Rielle and Anders.  Rielle placed her hand on Anders’s lap and linked her fingers with his.  Uncaring of their audience, Anders raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, returning her happy smile.  Alistair exchanged a glance with Zevran, who raised his eyebrows and quirked the corner of his mouth in amusement.

 

Hawke and her party were all present, as was Nathaniel, Leliana, Dagna, Temmerin, and Connor.  Eamon and Kylon sat on the other side of Zevran, both eying Anders with distrust.  Zevran had told Alistair that Hawke was in a relationship with Fenris, but the two were not sitting next to each other and were even taking great pains to avoid meeting each other’s gaze.  Leliana was leaning against Nathaniel, who bent his head to whisper something in her ear, and she laughed, twisting the braid in her hair around one finger.  Alistair cleared his throat to gain everyone’s attention and forced a wan smile as he spoke.

 

“Thanks for coming this afternoon, everyone.  We obviously have a lot to discuss and some decisions to make.  I prefer to take care of unpleasant business first, if you don’t mind.  Anders, if you would stand please.”

 

All eyes turned to the mage, who nodded and stood as his guards stepped forward to take their place beside him.  The hollow void that had been so prominent in his eyes yesterday was gone, and he appeared relaxed and at peace.  Alistair felt a moment of gladness that his reunion with Rielle had apparently gone well, but then stiffened his resolve for what came next.

 

“Anders, you admit to your crime in Kirkwall of destroying the Chantry and killing all within its walls.  Is this correct?”

 

“It is, Your Majesty.”

 

“And now you come here seeking asylum?”

 

“No, Your Majesty.”  Hawke jerked in her seat and gave Anders a hard look.  Anders kept his eyes fastened on Alistair.  Rielle sat quietly beside him, her hand still wrapped in Anders’s firm grip.  “I came here with Hawke, who was kind enough to spare me.  But I will face whatever judgment you decide.”

 

Alistair raised his eyebrows but nodded.  “Very well.  This is my decision.  Before you left Ferelden, you were a Grey Warden, but you forsook your duty and left the country.  Now you have returned, and that duty still stands.  You will return to Vigil’s Keep with Nathaniel and resume your tasks there.  The remainder of your years will be spent fighting darkspawn as you were conscripted to do.  If you should choose to flee again, your life will be forfeit, and I will not spare you from any who pursue you.  Is this understood, Anders?”

 

The mage bowed his head.  “You are generous, Your Majesty.”

 

“Perhaps not.  We both know what battling darkspawn is like.”  Alistair allowed a small smile before turning sober again.  “If any should seek vengeance on you, Nathaniel has agreed to support your status as Grey Warden, and you will be protected.  If you should manifest the spirit within you and act in a threatening manner, Nathaniel will also take the responsibility of ending this threat.”

 

Anders nodded.  “I understand, and I agree with you.”

 

Alistair sat back in relief.  “Good.  Then please sit back down and let’s move on, shall we?”  Anders shared a hug with Rielle, and she flashed Alistair a relieved smile.  Alistair was quick to note the frown on Eamon’s face, however, and Fenris also looked displeased.  _I hope there’s not going to be trouble there._   Fortunately, neither the seneschal nor the elf had anything to say, and the guards behind Anders’s chair melted back into the shadows by the door.

 

Alistair then asked Hawke to tell her story of what had happened in Kirkwall between the magi and templars.  When she had finished, everyone looked grim.

 

“I will send an emissary to Kirkwall tomorrow,” said Alistair.  “We will see how things stand there and offer what aid we can.”  He rubbed the bristles that covered his jaw.  “I had hoped to ally with Kirkwall in case of trouble with Orlais, but Kirkwall has its own problems now.”

 

“If a stable leadership can be established in a reasonable amount of time, Kirkwall may still be amenable to an alliance,” said Hawke.  “I would suggest speaking with Knight-Captain Cullen and with Aveline, Captain of the City Guard.”

 

“Eamon, I would like you to go as my ambassador,” said Alistair.  “See what Ferelden can do to help and assess the situation.”

 

“Very well, Your Majesty,” said the seneschal.

 

Alistair gestured to Kylon.  “Commander, I understand you have heard some disturbing rumors?”

 

Kylon shifted awkwardly in his chair, hating to be the center of attention.  “There are merchants in the Denerim marketplace who have come from overseas.  They claim that Orlais has been strengthening their army, recruiting quite heavily.  No overt moves have been made toward any of Orlais’s borders, but it is worrisome.”

 

“Indeed it is, especially since we still suspect that Orlais may be behind Anora’s assassination,” said Alistair.  “I think we may have to….”

 

He got no further, as the door banged open and just as in yesterday’s meeting, they were once again interrupted.  A bedraggled dwarf in heavy armor strode in, accompanied by the nauseating scents of ale, fish, and sewage.  He grinned as he looked around the spacious chamber, and twirled a lock of his red beard around a grimy finger.

 

“A party, eh?  And you didn’t invite old Oghren?  I’ve a mind to teach you a lesson, pike-twirler!”

 

“Oghren?”  Alistair stared at the dwarf in confusion just before the smell hit, and he wrinkled his nose.  “What are you doing here?”

 

“Yes, what _are_ you doing here?” asked Nathaniel.  “I left you and Sigrun in charge of Vigil’s Keep.”

 

“Well now, the lass is still there taking care of things, Commander.”  Oghren took an empty chair next to Nathaniel, heedless of Nathaniel’s glare.  “We were starting to wonder where you were, and then things started happening you see.  Sigrun sent me to give word to the King in case Orlais is trying to cause some trouble in Amaranthine, so here I am.”  Oghren peered around the table.  “Any good ale to be had?”

 

One of the guards hastened to bring the dwarf a mug, while Nathaniel gaped at Oghren.  “Orlais?  What happened in Amaranthine?”

 

They all listened attentively while Oghren explained about the bard they had captured in between noisy gulps of liquor.  By the time he had finished talking, four empty mugs occupied the table in front of his generous belly.

 

Nathaniel was furious.  “Are the nobility creating trouble as a result of these rumors?”

 

“Nah.  Sigrun said she would have a talk with them and explain.  Maybe if we parade the bard’s head around town, it might appease them.”

 

“What does this bard look like?” asked Leliana.  Nathaniel noticed for the first time that she had become tense.

 

Oghren described the woman they had captured and then called to the guard for food.  Leliana’s lips were set in a rigid line, and her face had gone quite pale.

 

“Who is it, Leli?” asked Alistair.

 

“Marjolaine,” said Leliana.  She nodded at the startled looks from Alistair, Rielle, and Zevran.  “Yes, the woman who was my mentor in Orlais.”

 

“Ah… spare the snake, and it returns to bite your heel,” said Zevran.

 

Rielle looked chagrined.  “I thought letting her go was the right thing to do.”

 

“It’s not your fault she’s a viper,” said Alistair.  He tapped his fingers on the table restlessly.  “She wouldn’t talk, Oghren?”

 

“Nope, not a word.  Bards are as well trained as Crows, you know.  It won’t be easy getting anything out of her.”  Oghren’s eyes lit up as a guard set a plate of meat and vegetables before him.

 

“Anyone can be persuaded with just the right incentive,” said Zevran, straightening up from his relaxed slouch.  He turned to Alistair.  “I think it would be wise if I were to go interview this bard, Your Majesty.”

 

“And me,” said Leliana.  “I think it’s past time I talked to her too.”

 

Alistair hesitated briefly and then gave a reluctant nod.  “Very well.  Nathaniel, can you take Leli and Zev to Vigil’s Keep?”

 

“And what about the Circle Tower?” asked Rielle.  “What are we going to do about Lutherain?”

 

“I think the new Knight Commander needs to understand his place here in Ferelden,” replied Alistair.  “I’m going to send some men back with you, Rielle, along with a letter from me stating that you are to be given temporary charge of the Circle.  Lutherain is to be escorted to Denerim to discuss his new policies with me personally.  If he gives you any trouble, he is to be taken prisoner along with any of the templars who support him.  In the meantime, I’m going to have a long conversation with the Grand Cleric of Denerim.”

 

Hawke stirred in her chair and spoke for the first time.  “I would like to go with Rielle.  I, too, am a mage and although I never grew up in the Circle, I detest everything it stands for.  If you don’t mind, Your Majesty, my friends and I will accompany the First Enchanter to the Circle.”

 

“Your aid is most appreciated, Serah Hawke.  I will send some of my own men with you in case there is conflict, although I would prefer to avoid this.”  Alistair gave Rielle a pointed look, and she nodded.

 

“I will try to resolve this peacefully, Alistair.  Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” he replied.  “Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but my head is spinning from all this discussion.  We have things to do, and I’m sure most of you will be leaving in the morning for your destinations.  Kylon, if you would come with me, I would like to discuss who to send with Rielle to the Tower.”  They all rose as he left with Kylon and began to talk amongst each other as they left the room.  Only Oghren remained, tearing happily into the meat and smiling as the rumblings from his ass echoed off the stone walls.


	22. Chapter 22

"When I kiss you, am I kissing Justice also?"

 

Anders smiled, drawing his fingers through the fine strands of Rielle's raven hair while he considered her question.  The First Enchanter sat on his lap nuzzling his neck, teasing him with gentle nips and soft kisses.  Only days ago, Anders had been a man of despair, burdened with guilt and searching for the death he knew he deserved.  When he saw Rielle, everything had changed.  He had something beautiful to live for; maybe even a chance to redeem himself.

 

"He is here but only manifests himself physically when he takes control of my body.  Right now you are kissing only me."  He took her hand, pressing his lips to the tender palm before arching a blond eyebrow.  "Unless you _want_ a threesome...."

 

She poked her finger into his side, making him yelp in surprise.  "Don't be lewd."  She was smiling into his chest, and Anders laughed.

 

It felt wonderful to hear him laugh and see him smile, after the terrible emptiness she had seen in his eyes.  She had been so afraid, but now he almost resembled the old Anders from Amaranthine days.  And Maker, how she had _missed_ him.  _I can help... I will do whatever it takes to make him whole again._ He would be returning to Vigil's Keep to resume his duties as a Warden, but she would be able to visit.  _Or perhaps I will resign as First Enchanter._ Other magi could handle the responsibilities.  _I’ll wait until after we clean up the mess Lutherain has created.  I won't leave the magi to be treated like prisoners._

"I wish I could go to the Tower with you," said Anders, as if he was reading her thoughts.  "I don't want you to face those templars alone."

 

"I won't be alone.  Alistair will send his men with me."

 

"Do you think I could talk him into letting me accompany you?  I would go on to Vigil's Keep after we fix things there."

 

Rielle grimaced.  "We can try, but that might be pushing our luck.  I'll ask him later."

 

A knock on the door of their suite startled them, and Rielle reluctantly left Anders's lap to investigate.  She resented the intrusion, wanting to be alone with Anders, but smiled when she saw Connor standing in the hallway, his flaming hair disheveled.

 

"Sorry to bother you, First Enchanter, but may I speak to you?"  Connor peered past Rielle to see Anders lounging on the sedan.  He flushed.  "I hope I'm not interrupting."

 

"You're fine, Connor.  Come in."  She closed the door behind the young mage, gesturing to an empty chair.  He sat gingerly on the edge and glanced around the room quickly, running his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more.  Rielle sat next to Anders, waiting while Connor shifted his eyes to Anders before looking back at Rielle meaningfully.

 

"You can talk in front of Anders," said Rielle.  "I trust him with my life."

 

"Foolishly," murmured Anders, but he grasped her hand with a grateful smile.

 

"Well, it's like this," said Connor.  He rubbed his sweaty palms on his robes, taking a deep breath.  "I won't be going back to the Tower with you."

 

"Excuse me?"  Connor flinched as Rielle narrowed her eyes.

 

"I met someone... she came here with the Champion.  Her name is Merrill, and she's a Dalish mage."

 

Anders's brow furrowed in astonishment.  "You have a thing... for Merrill?"

 

"No!"  Rielle suppressed a smile as Connor's face flushed red as an apple.  "No.  She gave me some interesting information."

 

Anders leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees.  "She's a blood mage, Connor."

 

"What?"  Rielle looked at Anders with horror.

 

"She's not like you think," explained Anders.  "She believes she can use blood magic for good instead of evil, but she's misguided.  All blood magic turns to evil eventually."

 

"I already know she's a blood mage.  She told me herself," said Connor. "But she told me about the Eluvian.  She still has a piece!"

 

"Hold on," said Rielle with a look of alarm.  "She has a piece of an Eluvian?  Those can be dangerous!"

 

"She still has that thing?"  Anders frowned.  "She was trying to make a new one but failed.  I assumed she left it behind."

 

"She brought a piece with her, and when she was telling me about it, I remembered a story Finn told me about how he went with the First Enchanter on a quest to find her friend."  He looked at Rielle.  "You know what I'm talking about, right?"

 

A flash of pain briefly crossed Rielle's face.  "I took Finn with me to find Morrigan a long time ago.  He wasn't supposed to tell anyone about it."  She glanced at Anders.  "I told you about her back in Amaranthine."

 

"The witch from the Wilds," said Anders.

 

"Yes."  She clasped her hands together, dropping her gaze to the floor.  "She... betrayed me.  I was furious, and after we killed the Archdemon, I went looking for her, but she had vanished.  I convinced Finn, another mage from the Tower to help me find her."

 

"And did you?" asked Anders.

 

"Yes.  We talked, and then she left this world by way of an Eluvian."  She looked back up at Connor.  "Why are you and Merrill so interested in it, Connor?"

 

"Not just me, but Dagna also.  If I remember the story correctly, the Eluvian is still there, right?"

 

"We left it where it was.  Unless someone else has meddled with it, it is probably there still."

 

"Merrill, Dagna, and I have some ideas about how it can used."  At Rielle's horrified expression, Connor lifted his hands in a calming gesture.  "For good, not for evil.  This, I swear."

 

"Explain," demanded Rielle.

 

"I can't.  Not yet, at least."  Rielle opened her mouth to protest, but Connor interrupted.  "First Enchanter, I need you to trust me.  I know I've done nothing to earn it, and my past certainly doesn't instill it...." Connor closed his eyes in a pained grimace.  "But I can do something here... something that may help others instead of harming them.  I need to do this."  He opened his eyes and gave her a pleading look.  "I may be able to save other magi.  I have to try.  It’s better if you don't know how, because if I fail, I don't want others to try it and die."

 

"Connor, you're scaring me.  Are you going to make an Eluvian?"

 

"No.  I'm going to try to find the one you found."

 

Rielle rose to her feet.  "No!  You can't go there alone!"

 

"I won't be alone.  Dagna, Merrill, and Temmerin have offered to go with me."

 

"You don't know the way."

 

"I can communicate with Finn through the Fade.  He will remember.  He took notes when he went with you."

 

Rielle crossed her arms angrily.  "I told you to stop using the red lyrium, Connor."

 

"I'm sorry, but I can't," said Connor.  "It's my only link with those who remained behind.  I needed to know they were okay."

 

Rielle flinched.  "Are they?"

 

"Yes, but who knows how long they will be once Lutherain hears about Kirkwall?"  Connor rose to his feet, face set with determination.  "I know you are going to help them, but what about other Circles in Thedas?  What will happen to them?  I may be able to help them, First Enchanter, but I can't tell you how.  Not yet."

 

"So you want me to trust you to run off with two dwarves and a blood mage?"

 

"To find a magic mirror, yes."  Connor shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile.  "Sounds like some kind of children's fairy tale, doesn't it?"

 

Rielle sighed and stepped forward to take Connor's face between her hands.  "I still want to protect you, just like I did years ago.  You're a man now, but it's hard for me to realize it."  She kissed him lightly on the cheek.  "If you feel this must be done, then go, but know that if you don't return, I will hunt you in the Fade and beyond, and you will feel the wrath of the former Commander of the Wardens."

 

"Thank you," said Connor.  He grabbed Rielle's hand and squeezed it.  "For everything."  His eyes glistened, but with a swish of robes, he was gone, leaving Rielle staring after him with a sad smile.

 

"He'll be okay," said Anders, as he stood and wrapped his arms around her waist.  "I may not approve of Merrill, but she's got a good heart, and she's a powerful mage.  She'll be able to protect him."

 

"I just feel like everything is changing, and I don't know if it's good or bad."

 

He placed a soft kiss on the side of her neck.  "Change is what we wanted... what we dreamed of all those years ago in Amaranthine.  It's time, Rielle.  Our time.  The time of the magi."

 

 _Let us hope it will be a time remembered with pride and not with sorrow,_ she thought as she sank into his embrace. _Let us pray we do what is right._

_###_

"You're kidding me, right?" Alistair’s voice nearly squeaked with disbelief,

 

Rielle shifted uncomfortably beneath Alistair's heated glare and Nathaniel's astonished gaze.  It was late, but she had found them both in Alistair's office talking.  Thankfully, she would need to have this conversation only once.  "Look, I know you ordered Anders back to Vigil's Keep...."

 

"Just this afternoon, as it happens.  You move fast, Rielle, and you presume much."

 

"Alistair, I'm eternally grateful to you for sparing Anders.  As is he."

 

"But still you want more.  You want me to release Anders from his duties, which he has only just resumed, and allow him to return to the Circle with you."  Alistair leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.  "I'm surprised at you, Rielle."

 

Rielle threw Nathaniel a beseeching look, but he shook his head.  "Don't look at me.  I like Anders, but he ran from his oath, Rielle.  Then he disappeared for years and blew up a Chantry.  He can't be trusted."

 

"I will take full responsibility for him.  If he flees, I will hunt him down for you.  If he acts in a harmful way...."  Rielle swallowed audibly but squared her shoulders in determination.  "If he allows Justice to take over or becomes an abomination, I will do what must be done."

 

Alistair held her gaze for a long moment.  "Are you sure you can do that, Rielle?  I know your feelings for him."

 

Her gaze never wavered.  "He asked it of me himself, made me swear it on my love for him."

 

Alistair looked at Nathaniel, but the Warden Commander only shrugged.  Alistair sighed, rubbing his temples while wishing he were anywhere but here.

 

"Alistair, I need him.  He's the best healer I've ever seen, and some of my people may be hurt.  The magi there will remember him and accept him as one of their own."

 

"And what am I supposed to tell people as to why I released a criminal?"

 

"Tell them it's time for the wrong to be righted and the criminal to pay for his sins.  If Anders wants to fight templars and save magi, let him do it where it needs to be done."

 

Alistair stared down at his hands, tense and flattened on the desk.  One by one, he forced each finger to relax, and by the time he had finished, he knew there was only answer he could give.  When had he ever been able to deny Rielle?

 

"Very well, Anders may go with you, but know I do this solely because you're my friend.  I trust you even if I don't trust him."  He looked at Nathaniel, who nodded his acceptance.  "Once he has finished his task at the Tower, you will escort him to Amaranthine, where he will resume his duties.  If any harm should come of this, you will be held responsible.  Understood?"

 

Her eyes were shining, and for a moment, she reminded Alistair of the Rielle of older days, before the end of the Blight.

 

"You won't regret this, Alistair.  Thank you."  She came around the desk and planted a light kiss on his cheek before hurrying from the office.  Alistair ran his fingers through his hair, turning to Nathaniel.

 

"Please tell me I didn't just make a mistake."

 

"It's never easy to call an action a mistake before it happens.  In this case, I do trust Rielle to stick to her word.  She will do whatever is necessary, even in love."

 

"That's why I trusted her with this.  It wouldn't be the first time she sacrificed for the good of many."   _She dragged me to Morrigan's bed in tears, even though I refused to bed the witch.  But Morrigan was right... neither of us died._   The sorrow that came after though....

 

Nathaniel stood and rubbed the back of his neck.  "It's been a long day, and I think I will retire now, Alistair."

 

"Give Leli my best," said Alistair with a grin.  When Nathaniel frowned, Alistair laughed.  "Zevran told me about the two of you.  I'm very happy for you both."

 

The frown dissolved into a soft smile, one Alistair didn't remember ever seeing on Nathaniel.  "Thank you.  Good night, Alistair."

 

The King waited a full minute after the door shut before speaking.  "You can come out now."

 

In the corner of the office was a doorway with a curtain instead of a door.  Behind the curtain was a closet made up of bookshelves, which contained many bindings of parchments used in treaties and royal transactions.  The closet was where Alistair kept all his correspondence and necessary documentation of everything he did as King.  It had provided a convenient hiding place for Zevran.

 

The assassin scooted out from behind the curtain and sprawled across the desk on his side with his chin propped in his palm.  When Alistair frowned at the insolent pose, Zevran only chuckled and looked up at his lover from lowered lashes.

 

"I was starting to wonder if you were _ever_ going to finish your business, _mi amor_.  Shall we resume where we left off when Nathaniel so rudely interrupted us?"  Zevran licked his lips deliberately.

 

 _Cheeky elf_ , thought Alistair as a flush reddened his cheeks.  "We were lucky we didn't get caught, Zevran.  You are definitely a corrupting influence."  He leaned forward to cup Zevran's head and yank him closer, kissing the assassin thoroughly enough that by the time he pulled away, Zevran's erection was sharply defined through the simple linen leggings he wore.

 

Amber eyes radiated heat, along with something that burned hotter than lust, but Zevran held himself in check.  "So tomorrow, Rielle, Anders, and Hawke's crew will leave for the Tower.  Nathaniel, Leliana, Oghren and myself will travel to the lovely port of Amaranthine.  And the stern seneschal shall undertake a journey to ruined Kirkwall.  I'm surprised you're being a good boy and staying here."

 

"Only for Duncan's sake.  He will be losing his bodyguard for a while, and I won't leave him unprotected."  Alistair gave Zevran a serious look.  "I don't want you to go."

 

Zevran sat up, scooting to the edge of the desk to face Alistair.  "I shall be fine, _mi amor_.  I have been taking care of myself for years, have I not?"

 

"And you did just fine until you came to me."  Alistair winced at the memory of Zevran writhing in pain on the bed after he had been poisoned.

 

Zevran placed his hands on the sides of Alistair's face, ever so gently.  "I was not _truly_ fine until I came to you."

 

Alistair's eyes prickled and he pulled the elf onto his lap, resting his forehead against Zevran's.  "I cannot lose you, Zevran.  Return to me and Duncan."

 

Zevran grasped Alistair's shirt, dragging him forward as searching lips found his lover’s.  " _Sì, amor_.  Whatever my King desires."

 

###

 

_We left Denerim with little to guide us, save a map and a dream.  Merrill had traveled extensively throughout Ferelden with her clan, but she had never been to the Dragonbone Wastes.  I contacted Finn through the Fade, and he described the path we would need to take to reach the place where the Eluvian had been found.  Each night during our travels, I would reach out to him and double-check our progress.  Even though our small party moved quickly, I couldn't help feeling like we were losing time... that something terrible was going to happen soon._

_I can't help but wonder sometimes what would have happened if we had not found the Eluvian.  The loom of life is larger than we can comprehend, and the threads that are woven are as many as raindrops.  Would Ferelden be controlled by Orlais?  Would they have conquered Thedas, as had the Tevinters of old?   Would all the magi be Tranquil... or even gone entirely?  I shudder to think of it._

_I will not go into detail here of all we encountered before reaching the Eluvian.  That story is recorded elsewhere in the history books of Ferelden.  Suffice to say, I was glad of Merrill's aid by the end of our journey.  Her magic was the power of nature itself, and one must never underestimate nature.  We fought our way through many vile creatures, but the prize was worth the effort.  The Eluvian stood exactly where Finn had described, and it was beautiful to behold.  I held Merrill as her tears wet the stone upon which we walked, and together we touched the mirror for the first time._

_Dagna and Temmerin noticed nothing, but as magi, Merrill and I could feel the power of the artifact through the frame, for we were careful not to touch the glass itself.  The four of us spent two days examining the Eluvian before finding a way to dismantle it for the trip back to Denerim.  We packaged it carefully in the softest of leather hides and stored it in backpacks._

_Our hope was simple:  to find a way to help magi from afar.  Little did we know that the smallest dream could evolve from a mere thread to an entire tapestry._

_\--From the Journals of First Mage Representative, Connor Guerrin_

By the time everyone had gathered in the palace courtyard the next morning, Rielle had already discovered that Connor was gone.  One of Kylon's men had seen them leaving by the front gate well before dawn:  two dwarves and two magi, swallowed by the darkness as they walked down the road.  Rielle knew that Connor wished his mission to be a secret; it would not be wise to let people know the location of an Eluvian.  _There are many in Thedas who would dearly love to learn the power of ancient Arlathan.  It is better that the mirrors remain lost._   If the threat to magi weren't so great, she would have forbidden Connor to pursue his quest.  _As if I could stop him_ , she thought wryly.  _At least I shall be far from here before Eamon discovers his absence._

 

She glanced over to a shadowed corner of the courtyard, where Alistair and Zevran were talking quietly.  Alistair looked troubled, but Zevran's face was calm.  Rielle watched as the elf brushed Alistair's cheek with the back of his fingers.  As Alistair leaned down to press his lips to Zevran's, she looked away to give them some semblance of privacy.

 

"Holy _Andraste_...."  The soft voice at her shoulder startled Rielle.  She glanced back to find Leliana staring open-mouthed at Alistair and Zevran.

 

"Close your mouth, Leli.  Apparently, it's been going on for some time now, and we are late in realizing it."  She grinned at her friend, grasping Leliana's chin and forcibly turning the bard's face away from the two men.

 

"But... Alistair and Zevran?  Those two were always at each other's throats!"

 

"Because of me."  Rielle shifted guiltily.  "To be honest, I don't know what happened to bring them together, but I'm glad.  Zevran will give Alistair what Anora never did, and Alistair has taught an ex-Crow that love is freedom, not a cage."

 

"Poor Alistair.  I'm glad he's found happiness."  Leliana glanced at Nathaniel, who was talking to Anders.  "I hope the four of us are traveling the same path as them."

 

Rielle looked over to where Hawke was conversing with Carver and Varric.  Not far away stood Fenris, who was watching Hawke intently, his eyes full of a longing he hid whenever Lia looked his way.  "Life is too short to ignore love.  If only we all realized it."  Anders had told her about Hawke and Fenris, and she felt sorry for both of them.

 

The two groups gathered to check their supplies and say their goodbyes.  Nathaniel would be heading back to Amaranthine with Leliana, Zevran, and Oghren.  Rielle would be leading the others, including fifteen of Kylon's men, back to the Circle Tower.  Rielle had pulled Hawke and Nate aside earlier to explain that Temmerin and Merrill had gone with Connor.  Both were concerned but did not press when Rielle refused to disclose their quest.

 

As Rielle headed for the gate, a flash of tow-headed hair caught her attention.  She stopped to watch as Duncan ran into the courtyard.

 

"Zev!"

 

Zevran turned from saying goodbye to Alistair, kneeling as Duncan rushed up to him.

 

"Oy, _mi chico_.  I had thought you were still asleep."

 

"I wanted to say goodbye and give you this."  The boy held out a folded piece of parchment to Zevran, which the assassin opened immediately.  His eyes softened, and he glanced up at Alistair, who was also examining the parchment.  Carefully, Zevran refolded it, placing it in the pouch on his belt.

 

" _Muchas gracias, mi amigo poco_."

 

"Will you bring me back something?"  Duncan flinched under the stern gaze of his father.  "Please?"

 

"Of course.  Take care of your father while I'm gone."

 

"I'll keep an eye on him!"  Alistair laughed and ruffled Duncan's cropped hair, so like his own.

 

Zevran laid his palm against the boy's cheek briefly, then stood to join the group going to Amaranthine.

 

As they all passed beneath the huge, ornate gate that led from the palace grounds, Rielle took one last look back.  Alistair was standing with his arm around Duncan's shoulder, watching them leave.  _How many of us will return?_   She was under no illusions; returning to the Circle Tower would be dangerous.  A battle was highly likely, for she didn't believe Lutherain would obey Alistair's orders.  There was also Orlais to consider... the possible threat to Ferelden if Alistair's suspicions were correct.  Was Ferelden ready for another war so soon after the Blight?

 

 _Whatever must be done will be done_.  Tossing her dark, braided hair over her shoulder, she smiled up at Anders who walked beside her in new robes instead of his tattered, blue coat.  As vendors began to open their shops in Denerim's market, she led her group out of the city, taking the westward road to Lake Calenhad while the morning sun sent its warm rays against their backs in farewell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, to Zevgirl for her hard beta work! Sorry if this chapter is a little dull, but there's action coming. Next up: Amaranthine!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, but I've returned! Here's a quick synopsis of the story so far . . . .
> 
> Our story began with the assassination of Anora at the hand of a Crow. At Flemeth's urging and with Lia Hawke's aid, Zevran investigated and discovered that a Bard from Orlais hired the Crow. He went to Denerim to inform King Alistair, who hired him as a bodyguard for himself and his son, Duncan. A relationship developed between Zevran and Alistair, blossoming into friendship and then much more.
> 
> Meanwhile, in Kirkwall, Lia Hawke reunited with Fenris after the death of Danarius. She and her companions rescued the Warden Commander, Nathaniel, and his companion, Temmerin, who had gone to the Deep Roads to investigate the Primeval Thaig. Nathaniel then met Leliana, who was now a Seeker, in Kirkwall. She had come at the request of the Divine, who was interested in the discovery of the red lyrium. After they shared stories, they headed to Ferelden to visit Rielle Surana, the Hero of Ferelden and the First Enchanter. They hoped to learn more about the red lyrium with her assistance.
> 
> Rielle had just guided Connor Guerin through his Harrowing, and with Dagna, they met with Leliana and Nate to discuss the ramifications of the red lyrium. Connor discovered that with the red lyrium, he had the ability to speak telepathically to other mages via the Fade. Before they could act further, the new Knight Commander, Lutherain, arrested Connor, accusing him of blood magic. Leliana, Rielle, and Nathaniel helped him to escape the Circle Tower, and with Dagna and Temmerin, they traveled to Denerim to enlist Alistair's aid.
> 
> Meanwhile, in Kirkwall, Anders blew up the Chantry and was spared by Hawke, creating a rift between her and Fenris. After killing Meredith, Hawke and her companions boarded Isabela's ship and went to Denerim, also seeking help from Alistair.
> 
> Everyone gathered in Denerim, where Alistair spared Anders's life. They shared stories and agreed that Orlais may be preparing for war. Connor met Merrill, and they left to search for an Eluvian among the Dragonbone Wastes. They hoped to use it in combination with the red lyrium to somehow help the mages, who were now in danger after the disaster in Kirkwall. Oghren arrived to inform Nathaniel that he and Sigrun captured a bard who was making trouble in Amaranthine.
> 
> The group split. Rielle, Anders, Hawke, and her companions headed to the Circle Tower to confront Lutherain and rescue the imprisoned mages. Nathaniel, Leliana, Oghren, and Zevran went to Amaranthine to question the bard, who they suspected was Marjolaine. Alistair remained in Denerim to summon the Bannorn in preparation for war.
> 
> And so we continue . . . .

Torches glowed faintly through the heavy mist coiling along the streets, golden eyes peeking into the evening lives of Amaranthine's residents. Zevran wrinkled his nose at the sour smell cloying the air, nothing like the fresh, salty breeze he enjoyed in Antiva City. Mud sucked at their horses' hooves, the squelches echoing in the fog. A few mongrels crept up to sniff the horses before loping off into dark alleys in search of easier prey. _Mud and dogs,_ thought Zevran. _Two things about Ferelden that never change._

He rode next to Nathaniel, followed by Leliana and Oghren, all of them cloaked and hooded in deference to the mists. Now, as they passed through the main gate, Nathaniel lowered his hood, nodding to the pair of guards moving forward with spears lowered.

"Ah, my apologies, Arl," murmured the older one, lifting his spear. "I did not recognize you at first. You've been gone for a long time."

"Quite all right, Captain Firth," replied Nathaniel. "How have things been during my absence?"

The man rubbed at his beard, waving the other guard back to his post. "Hmm . . . a bit edgy, to tell the truth. There have been some rumors floating about. Lots of people been getting irritable and pissing up trouble where there's none to be found, pardon my language." He squinted at the others behind Nathaniel. "Are these some of your Wardens, my Lord?"

"Oghren, you know. Zevran and Leliana are my guests." Nathaniel glanced around, leaning down and lowering his voice. "What kind of rumors, Firth?"

The captain turned his head and spat. "Nothing you should concern yourself with, Lord Howe. Filthy lies fit for drunks and gossipers with nothing better to do. Those of us who are loyal . . . we know the truth of it."

Nathaniel leaned down to squeeze the captain's shoulder. "I've never doubted you, Firth, but if there's trouble, I need to be prepared. Report to me tomorrow at the Keep."

"Aye, sir."

They left their horses at the stable, and Nathaniel led them to The Crown and Lion.

"We'll stay here for the night and go to the Keep tomorrow. I'd like to get a feel for the mood around here," he said.

The tavern was subdued, and suspicious stares from the patrons carried plenty of heat to chase away the damp. At Nathaniel's suggestion, they remained hooded, seating themselves at a scarred, wooden table in the corner while the Warden Commander conversed with the bartender. A few minutes later, Nathaniel joined them, followed by the bartender carrying mugs of ale. After serving them, the portly man gave Nathaniel a nod and retreated to the bar.

"He only has two rooms left," said Nathaniel, turning his chair and stretching his long legs with a sigh. "I'm sure Zevran won't mind sharing with Oghren?" He shot Zevran a knowing smile.

Zevran rolled his eyes. "The sacrifices I make for romance," he groaned, winking at Leliana.

Oghren glared at them, downing his entire mug in one swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he uttered a splendid belch before pointing a stubby finger at his commander.

"If you expect me to spend the night with the flirty elf, you better get me stronger brew than this, Commander."

"If it seduces you into a silent sleep, I will buy your drinks myself, my friend," said Zevran.

"Done," replied Oghren, sealing the deal with an emphatic rumble from the seat of his chair.

The extra drinks, unfortunately, did not result in a peaceful rest for Zevran. Snores replaced flatulence, reminding Zevran of restless nights in the Deep Roads listening to Oghren's nightly serenades echo through the gloom. He laid awake, remembering Nathaniel's grim silence as they listened to the hushed conversations around them. Grumbles of discontent reached their ears: the Arl of Amaranthine was going to raise taxes to fix up his Keep, use his wardens to police the arling, and would require Amaranthine citizens to spend time each week serving at the Keep to relieve the Wardens of noncombatant duty. Nobles would be ordered to send Arl Howe a percent of their income, taken from their constituents.

It would take time to regain the confidence of the Amaranthine people, time they did not have with a possible war looming across the Waking Sea. Zevran did not envy Nathaniel's position. He had his own duty waiting for him at the Keep, one without mercy.

As the mists thickened outside, Zevran swept his arm over the other side of his bed, acknowledging the emptiness with a peculiar ache. Closing his eyes, he allowed the emptiness to fill his heart and mind, a necessity as much as protection. By the time he finally drifted to sleep, he had almost convinced himself that the emptiness next to him did not matter.

Almost.

* * *

The sun broke through the fog just as they entered the outer gates of the Keep. A circle of Wardens surrounded them, welcoming their Commander home. One ran to alert Sigrun of their arrival, while others took their horses to the stable.

Nathaniel led them straight to his suite, where they found Sigrun leaning back in the Commander's chair with her boots comfortably situated on his desk.

"About time you showed up . . . _Sir_." She directed her attention at Oghren waddling through the door behind Leliana. "Took your time finding him, did you?"

"A dwarf can't fly to Denerim and back in a day, lass," grumbled Oghren, plopping down by the window.

Nathaniel removed his gloves, slapping them down on his desk while glaring at Sigrun until she reluctantly removed her feet. "How is the prisoner doing?"

"Oh, she made quite a stink at first . . . demanded better living arrangements while we waited for you. I made it clear if she could spread filth to raise a ruckus, she can live in it. Haven't heard a peep from her since. She won't answer a single question, of course."

"I'll have to change that," said Nathaniel. "We need her information. Orlais may be preparing for war against Ferelden."

Sigrun's eyes widened and she sat up straighter. "Really?" She glanced at Oghren, who shrugged unhappily. "Well, let them bring it. We got Wardens ready to fight."

Oghren snorted. "Even fighting would be better than all this traveling. But we're Wardens, lass. We don't participate in political matters."

"You can't be serious! We can't just stand by while our country is invaded!"

Nathaniel held up his hand, shaking his head. "Nothing's decided yet. We need information."

Sigrun crossed her arms, glaring at him. "How did the trip to the thaig go?"

Leliana shot Nathaniel a sympathetic look as he ran a hand slowly over his face. "All dead except Temmerin and me. It was a disaster." He straightened his shoulders. "I'll tell you later. I suppose I better go see the bard."

Zevran stepped forward. "Actually, that's why I am here, Commander. Alistair wished for me to take care of the questioning, since the Wardens aren't supposed to be involved."

"She threatened my reputation here as Arl, Zevran. She is my responsibility."

"She also has threatened the King. Which makes her mine."

Leliana held her breath as the two men faced off. She had conversed privately with Zevran during their journey, telling him about Nathaniel's fear of encouraging his darker side. She knew Nathaniel was not looking forward to questioning the bard. A small part of him relished the idea, and it frightened him. _Let Zevran handle it, Nate._

Nathaniel sighed, nodding in acquiescence. "Very well. I suppose you have more training in this than I."

"The best." Zevran's smile was dark, and the ice in his eyes made Leliana shiver. A flicker of worry sparked in her mind, but she pushed it aside. Zevran was a Crow. He knew what he was doing.

Nevertheless, she watched the elf carefully as Nathaniel guided them to their rooms. His movements were focused, his expression blank. She knew well the mental preparation one went through before commencing a mission. Necessity often required a separation from self, from morality and emotion both.

_Do not lose yourself, Zevran,_ she thought. _Alistair needs you._

* * *

When she was thirteen, young Marjie began her training in the art of espionage. She had studied the musical arts since the age of six, but her mother had higher aspirations for her youngest daughter. The Bards were impressed with her voice and determination. They took over her musical training, provided her room and board, and observed her closely for two years before deciding to proceed.

Deceit, lies, assassination, and interrogation were all integral to the training of a Bard. Marjolaine's intelligence and beauty advanced her swiftly through the ranks, and by the age of seventeen, half the court sought her bed. Only once did her heart suffer the grief of regret, for she erected a wall of stone around it ever after. It was a lesson her profession learned quick: never give your emotions control.

Thus, it was hardly difficult to maintain a cool composure when the Wardens deposited her into a high-backed chair in the center of a small, windowless room containing nothing more than a sturdy table. _Finally, we can get on with it._ She crossed her shapely legs, still clothed in leather armor, and waited patiently. After the Arl learned of her connections to the Divine, he would contact the chantry who would then pass on a message to Justinia. Time would pass in utter boredom, but eventually the Wardens would free her, and she would return to her country.

The first crack in her serenity appeared when the door opened to admit not the tall, dark Warden Commander, but a lithe, blond elf whose face she had encountered during the Blight and whose reputation was known, even in Orlais. Her uplifted chin never dropped and her smile never wavered, but her heart lurched. _A worthy opponent, to be sure, and a deadly one._

Zevran did not glance in her direction but walked slowly to the table, placing a plain, leather pouch on the dusty surface. Without the slightest urgency, he withdrew certain tools from the bag . . . tools Marjolaine knew well. They glinted in the torchlight, sending shards of light skittering over the damp, stone walls. Her hands, so meticulously placed on her crossed thighs, began to sweat.

Each tool arranged carefully in a row, Zevran finally turned to give her his regard. No curl of scorn raised his upper lip. His eyes did not narrow in scrutiny. His jaw did not clench in anger. Every aspect of his face remained blank, his body relaxed but controlled. His gaze never wavered as he leaned back against the table, crossing his arms while cocking his head to one side like a bird before it snaps up a worm.

Reluctant to break the silence, she cleared her throat. "So, is this how it's to be, Crow? Torture instead of reasoning?"

"There is little left to reason, Lady Marjolaine. But come . . . we both know how this game works. Tell me what I wish to know, and your death will be swift."

"We both are creatures of the shadow, Zevran Arainai. The Bards' interests have ever matched the Crows'. We need not be at odds with one another."

"Indeed? And what do you suggest? Do not shame yourself by suggesting I join you. Even desperation must see reason."

"Of course, you need not join me. But my client is . . . _very_ influential. I am certain you will be rewarded if you turn your head the other way."

He was _very_ good; she would give him that. Not even a blink or twitch to show he cared. Turning slightly, he brushed his fingers over the shining silver.

"There was a time when your offer would have intrigued me, my Lady." He raised a slim, curved knife and drew the edge over his thumb, observing the resulting line of crimson with hooded eyes. "But now?" He lifted his eyes to hers. "I have discovered the only thing that can satisfy me. And the only reward I wish is your death."

The door of opportunity closed, and Marjolaine knew it was over. The only thing left to decide was how she wished to die. _I will not cow before a bastard elf. Crows are not the only ones who survive cruel training._

She met his icy stare with the heat of defiance. "Then let us get on with it, whoreson. I will not forsake my contract to suit your curiosity."

"And I expected no less. It will be regrettable, however, to destroy such beauty and composure." Zevran turned, replacing his knife with a set of ropes. Marjolaine sat rigid and stoic as he proceeded to tie her wrists and ankles to the chair, ending with a leather strap that fastened securely over her chin and forehead. Struggling would only make it worse; she would retain her dignity as long as possible.

Zevran knelt, giving her one last shred of respect by allowing her to see his face. "Last chance, Lady Marjolaine. Tell me of your contract and client freely, or confess it with blood."

"Tell your King he is doomed, whoreson. I shall watch Ferelden burn with satisfaction from wherever you send me."

The fury in his eyes was the last thing she saw before the blindfold came down. _Ah, I touched a nerve there. A last taste of victory is ever so sweet, but I suspect I will pay dearly for those words._

She was right. Death did not come to Marjolaine kindly, but she was glad to succumb to His embrace at the end. The chill of black was far preferable to the fire of amber.

* * *

"I should have insisted on doing it myself."

Leliana watched as Nathaniel paced the length of his office. They had eaten dinner in the hall, where he had spoken with his Wardens of the ill-fated journey to the Primeval Thaig. After promising a memorial service for the dead, Nate had retired to the small room adjacent to his quarters. Sensing his disquiet, Leliana had insisted on joining him while they awaited Zevran.

"Not that you couldn't handle it, Nate, but interrogation is one of Zevran's skills. It was wise to stand aside."

Nate twisted his head sharply, fixing her with an intense glare. "You don't understand. It's not about who is better. It is not about guilt in allowing another to perform a gruesome task that should be mine." With a sigh, he dropped into a chair. "At some point, I have to prove to myself that I have control."

"Control?"

"Over myself." Nathaniel slid his finger over a deep groove in the surface of his desk, rubbing it back and forth, as if he could erase the scar. "Long ago, before my father sent me to the Free Marches to learn the art of battle, he used to take me with him to the basement." He raised his eyes to Leliana. "Where he punished his prisoners, you see."

_Ah._ Leliana remembered that basement: the chains, the tables stained with blood, the wheels that were not used for transportation.

"At the time, I believed he wished me to witness how justice was served. Later, I realized he wanted to see my reaction. To determine if his son was made of the same strong, cold stuff he was, to do whatever he considered necessary to get ahead."

"You _are_ strong, Nate, but not cruel. There's a difference."

He stood, sudden and swift, turning from her with an expression of self-loathing. "Am I not, Leliana? Even as I cringed from the blood, a part of me _enjoyed_ watching those men and women whipped until their skin hung in shreds. My hand itched to be the wielder, to make them scream until they were hoarse." His voice broke, cracking beneath the weight of horror. "I almost threw myself from the roof when I realized it. I was a monster that should never have been unleashed."

Leliana rose from her chair, sliding around the desk to place a reassuring hand on Nathaniel's back.

"I'm very glad you didn't. And I see nothing of this monster of which you speak." When Nathaniel whirled around, she held up a hand to stop him. "You recognized a part of yourself that _could_ consume you, but you never allowed it. Am I correct?"

"That doesn't mean it has gone."

"This is why you were worried about being too rough with me, yes?" At Nathaniel's nod, she smiled and took his hand in hers. "I'm not even a little concerned that you will ever hurt me, Nate. Nor do I believe you will lose control of what you fear. Your morals shape you; your memories of your father shape you. Your father believed that what he did was right. You know it to be wrong. That makes all the difference."

The deep lines etched across Nathaniel's forehead smoothed, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. Unable to speak, he drew her into his arms, burying his face into flaming hair. Mere words, she knew, would not be enough to convince him, but perhaps in time her love might be enough.

_Love? Maker, I'm in trouble._

An abrupt knock on the door interrupted them. Nathaniel's arms were slow to release her.

"Enter."

The door opened to reveal Zevran, his eyes darting back and forth between them.

"Am I interrupting?"

Leliana started to smile, but then remembered where and what Zevran was coming from, what he had spared both her and Nate.

Nathaniel had not forgotten. "Sit, Zevran." He gestured to a chair next to the one Leliana had vacated, and she resumed her seat as well, blatantly scrutinizing the elf.

"I am fine, my dear," Zevran murmured, meeting her gaze squarely. His eyes said otherwise, but Leliana knew enough to let it go. For the moment.

Nathaniel leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "Thank you, Zevran, for doing what needed done. Did she tell you anything?"

"Lady Marjolaine displayed remarkable resistance, but I was quite persistent."

Leliana winced and then hardened her heart. Marjolaine had walked dangerous circles, settling her own fate.

"What did she say?"

"Mostly what we already expected. Orlais wants their empire back. Ferelden and the Free Marches are too tempting to ignore."

"So, it's war." Nathaniel slumped in his chair.

"The Blight has weakened Ferelden. The Empress has been building her army since the Archdemon's defeat, but she needed to ensure Ferelden remained hobbled. An alliance was made."

"The Chantry," whispered Leliana.

"A profitable venture for both," conceded Zevran. "The Divine sends Meredith to Kirkwall's circle and encourages her fanatic nature. Kirkwall's circle eventually succumbs. Kirkwall is now in chaos thanks to the mage, Anders. The Divine enlists Marjolaine, an old acquaintance, to assassinate the royal family of Ferelden, hoping to create more chaos. Marjolaine fails and is sent to undermine the Wardens and the Arl of Amaranthine."

"At least we caught her." Nathaniel smiled grimly.

"But what does the Divine get in return?" asked Leliana.

"Power, my dear. Power second only to the Empress. Royal support of Andraste's eminence. Between the two of them, they would control the largest segment of Thedas."

The torch sputtered, interrupting the sudden silence. Nathaniel sighed, moving to the window, his eyes roaming over the far lights of Amaranthine in the clear night.

"Ferelden is still stu

* * *

mbling from the Blight, and now this." He breathed deep, the salty air bitter in his throat. "And here I am, sworn to the Wardens and helpless."

"None of this is right," murmured Leliana, dropping her gaze to the Seeker medallion she still wore upon her chest. _All that I have believed in . . . all that I have worked for . . . it's nothing more than a grasp for power._ She looked within herself for anger but found only disappointment. _Ah, well._

Reaching around her neck, she unclasped the chain and stood, gripping the golden Eye within her fist. Without another thought, she went to the window, cocked her arm and threw the medallion into the night, satisfied only when she could no longer see the glint in the moonlight.

"Leli?" Nathaniel gripped her shoulder in concern.

"There has to be a reckoning for this, Nate," she said. "It was my role as Seeker to determine the truth beneath the lies. It's time to reveal the truth. The Divine owes me that much."

"What will you do?"

"Return to Orlais. Beyond that . . . we shall see."

"And I shall return to Denerim," said Zevran, rising to his feet. "Alistair must know of this."

Nate nodded. "I shall send a few men to accompany you."

"Not necessary, although the offer is appreciated. I travel faster alone, Commander." Zevran laid his palm against Leliana's cheek. "Be well, _mi amiga_ , in whatever you choose to do."

"Andraste be with you, Zevran." She watched him close the door behind him before turning back to Nathaniel.

"I must leave tomorrow, Nate. I'm sorry."

He was frowning. "I would rather you stay here. There's no need to go to Orlais, especially now."

She shook her head. "I have to do this, Nate. I can't leave things unfinished. Besides, I have a report to give the Divine." Her lips lifted in a sad smile. "She may not like it."

Nathaniel pulled her slight body into his arms, and they embraced while staring out into the night. In a different room on the other side of the Keep, an elf likewise stood by his window, gazing out in the opposite direction toward Denerim, where faint flickers of lightning set the sky aglow. He remembered another night in Antiva, a similar smell of the sea, and a crow who had spoken of change.

_Now the change comes, and the storm with it._ Where it would leave him, he had no idea, but he had made his choice. _I will face the storm with Ferelden and its King._

When the sun crested the horizon at dawn, he was already lost among the forests south of Amaranthine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to Zevgirl for her awesome editing! I'm grateful to those of you who have waited so long for an update. More to come!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I owe many thanks to Zevgirl for her continued effort in editing my story. And thanks also to all of you who continue to read and review!

* * *

The Circle Tower of Ferelden rose tall and bleak against the sickly yellow of the twilight sky. Even here, on the shore of Lake Calenhad, Fenris could feel the power of the Fade bleeding from its ancient stones. Like worms, it crawled through his lyrium brands, a constant itch he could not scratch. Compared to the Circle in Kirkwall, the sensation was stronger here, where magi had lived far longer. Anders had called it a jail.

It certainly made for an effective prison, surrounded by water and equipped with only one large gate as an entrance. The only windows were well above the lake's surface, promising a risky exit should anyone attempt to jump. If the escapee survived the deadly rocks at the foot of the Tower, he still had to swim quite a distance in full view of anyone armed with a bow. Yet, Anders claimed to have escaped seven times.  _Another lie among many,_ Fenris thought.

Far across the water, he watched a dark smudge separate from the shadows of the Tower, moving steadily toward the village docks off to his left. From behind him, the rustle of tall grass announced someone's approach. He did not turn, nor was he surprised to hear Lia Hawke's low voice.

"Looks like Rielle's messenger is returning. Let's hope the Knight Commander was reasonable."

If the stories about Commander Lutherain were true, Fenris doubted he would comply with Rielle's request to release the magi and relinquish his command. Why should he? Even with the Ferelden King's support, Rielle's army was not in an easy position to attack the Tower. Assuming the templars were well-stocked, they could withstand a siege for months. If they decided to kill the magi within, Rielle could not stop them.

Hawke moved closer, her cloak brushing the bare skin of his elbow. "Looks pretty horrible, doesn't it? All those years growing up . . . . this is what my father was protecting us from. I used to complain about all the hovels we lived in, but seeing this? If I could go back, I would never complain again."

Bitter words filled Fenris's mouth, but he swallowed them, feeling the burn all the way into his gut. Hawke had never traveled to Tevinter. Hawke had never been a slave. The chasm of difference between them yawned wide and long. Yet, he had loved this woman . . . loved her still, truth be told. His fingers twitched with the need to pull her into his arms, but he stood immobile, rooted by stubborn fury at her betrayal. It  _had_  been betrayal, choosing Anders's life over deserved death.  _How many more deaths will the abomination cause before Hawke realizes her mistake?_

He thought his guard was up, his expression shielded, but something must have slipped over his face because suddenly, she stood before him, eyes full of desperate hope. He knew her pain, had felt the sheer rawness of her disappointment every time he turned his back on her. Did she think this was easy for him, the man who had once cherished her as the one thing precious in his life? Why did she persist in her attempts to rekindle their doomed relationship?

"Fenris." She bit her lip, dropping her eyes to the ground. "I know how you feel about Anders. I know you think I made a mistake. I know you don't want to be here, rescuing magi instead of imprisoning them. In fact, I'm not sure  _why_  you came. . . ."

_For you. To protect you from your own folly._ But he remained silent, eyes fixed on the spire rising from the middle of the lake.

Undaunted, she continued her plea. "I still love you. Whatever happens, I'll continue to love you whether you return it or not. But I will not turn my back on magi in need of help. I'm fighting for my own freedom now, as well as theirs. Whatever you think of magi, we are not vermin to be rounded up and exterminated." Her voice cracked on the last word, but he felt her eyes burning him with the fire of righteousness and determination. He remembered that look, had seen it just before she had taken down Danarius. That time, her fire had burned for  _him_.

He started to turn, eyes suddenly bright, but he was too late. Her cloak swirled around long legs as she hurried away, hood concealing her distraught face. He took a step, just one, and then stopped. His fist opened and closed, reaching helplessly . . . for what? What might have been?

_I love you also._

* * *

Hawke waited respectfully until the messenger left Rielle's tent before entering. She knew Lutherain's answer as soon as she saw the First Enchanter's face.

"No luck?" She glanced from Rielle, sitting on her bedroll, to Anders, who was pacing restlessly in the cramped space.

Rielle shook her head. "He refuses to recognize Alistair's authority . . . says the King cannot command Chantry officials. He won't back down and furthermore, he threatens to start killing magi if we attack."

Hawke sat down next to one of the two lanterns lighting the interior of the tent. Pulling her knees to her chin, she watched Anders stalk back and forth. "So what's the plan?"

Rielle was watching Anders also, brow furrowed with concern. "I'm going to talk to Connor tonight in my dreams. He's been checking in with Petra every night, asking about the situation in the Tower. He doesn't contact me as often, but if he does tonight, I'll let him know what is happening."

"He can't help us from wherever he is," said Anders. His face was haggard, and Hawke was struck by how old he suddenly appeared. She could not remember when she had last heard him laugh.

"He can let Petra know we're here," said Rielle. "Give them some hope at least."

"Hope for what? A slaughter?" At Rielle's shocked expression he sighed, rubbing at the stubble lining his jaw. "Sorry. I just can't think of a way to get them out safely. It's making me crazy."

Rielle stood and took his hand between hers. "We'll figure something out, love. Let's get some sleep now. Maybe in the morning, things will be clearer."

As Anders pulled Rielle into his arms, Hawke rose, exiting the tent with a heavy heart.  _At least they have each other._  She stared out toward the darkened shore of the lake, but there was no sign of Fenris. Varric was sitting by the fire with Isabela, and he beckoned to her to join them, but she shook her head, walking instead to her tent. She kept two bedrolls inside, an old habit from her travels in the Free Marches. Though she waited until the fire outside burned out, the second bedroll remained empty.

* * *

_Once we had the Eluvian, our intent was to take it to Denerim. This changed when we encountered a trader caravan on the road. They informed us that Alistair had summoned the Bannorn to Denerim for an emergency meeting. While we were certain of King Alistair's support for magi, we could not be sure of the Bannorn. It seemed prudent to keep the Eluvian a secret until we knew if it worked. The Wending Wood was nearby and still contained remnants of a Dalish camp. Rielle had passed through years ago, purging the wood of evil, but locals steered a wide path around it, and this worked to our advantage._

_If battling the dark things that creep within the Dragonbone Wastes was difficult, getting the Eluvian to work proved nearly impossible. The Imperium had used the mirrors for communication, but we wanted to unlock the secrets of Arlathan, achieve what the Tevinters had not. I was so certain red lyrium was the key, but I was only half-correct._

_Again and again, I wrestled the ancient lyrium to my command and entered the Fade, seeking the path that would lead straight to the mirror. Days passed, and I failed repeatedly. Time hung over our shoulders like the darkening clouds of an approaching storm. What was going on in Kirkwall? In Denerim? I was still in touch with Petra at the Tower, and the magi were frightened. Time was running out if we wished to succeed._

_In the end, Merrill found the way. Blood magic. Who could have guessed the elves of Arlathan had used the magic of demons? Perhaps they weren't demons in the ancient days. Perhaps blood magic was pure when the elves dominated the land. Merrill spoke of nature and its spirits . . . could the spirits have become corrupted over time, as was the Fade? It was a startling revelation._

_There was no time to explore the possibilities. Between Merrill's magic and my control of the red lyrium, the Eluvian woke, a burst of golden light shining in the gray wasteland of the Fade. A beacon of hope for our sisters and brothers._

_-From the Journals of First Mage Representative, Connor Guerrin_

* * *

The dream began pleasantly enough. She and Anders were alone on an island surrounded by an aqua sea, the waves glittering in the setting sun. They held hands, walking along the beach barefoot. Angry templars and ghoulish darkspawn were nowhere to be seen. They walked without speaking, content in this world made just for them. When finally they stopped, Anders tipped his head back, squinting into the sun. In that moment, the sand beneath her feet turned cold, and the sea darkened to an ugly black. As he turned to look at her, she pressed her palm to his mouth.  _Don't say it . . . don't say it. Don't let it end._

He didn't. Instead, there was a nauseating lurch, and the dream shattered like glass. She stood on familiar bleak soil littered with warped dead trees, gray mists coiling and stretching as far as she could see.

"Sorry."

Rielle turned, unsurprised to see the young man with flaming red hair. "Isn't there a better way to get my attention than to yank my ethereal self from my dream to yours?"

He grinned sheepishly, reminding her of the boy who was once her student. "It's not my dream, actually." He gestured to the shifting landscape around them. "Do you think the Fade always looked like this, or was it once different?"

"Who can say? Are we having a history lesson tonight?" She eyed him warily. "Have you heard from Petra?"

"She's fine. Come. I want to show you something." He moved down a winding path, glancing back.

She sighed. "I'd rather be walking on the beach with Anders, but okay."

The paths made no sense to her, twisting one way, then the other. It was impossible to set a destination in the Fade other than what it chose, yet Connor moved with clear purpose. Before long, she saw a faint light through the fog, bright and clear. With a gasp, she followed him into a clearing, halting at the edge in amazement.

Grass covered a circular glade, a shade of green too vivid to be real. Lush violet and yellow flowers peeked from among the vegetation, and the trees grew straight and tall, shielding the clearing from the leaden sky above. In the center stood a mirror, reflecting nothing, but filled with a haze of light too bright to gaze at for long.

"The Eluvian?"

Connor nodded. "We did it, First Enchanter. We found the ancient paths of Arlathan, used by the elves to journey from one point to another."

Rielle stared at the mirror in wonder. "If I go through that mirror, I'll be where your physical self is?"

"With my help and Merrill's . . . yes. I don't recommend you try it, though. Without a mirror on your side, I can't bring you back." He gestured around the clearing. "But look what it did to this area of the Fade. I'm guessing this is how the Fade used to look, before the Imperium corrupted it."

It was certainly possible. "Can you teach others how to use the Eluvian?"

"In time, perhaps." He refused to look at her. "It requires the use of blood magic."

Rielle blanched. "No! Connor, tell me you didn't . . . ."

He shook his head. "I didn't, no. Merrill did. I was afraid of succumbing to a demon again."

"Was there no other way?" Blood magic. The very idea of turning to a demon for aid sickened her.

"I tried, believe me. We needed help from within the Fade. So far, Merrill has her demon under her control." He glanced at the Eluvian, as if expecting Merrill to appear suddenly.

"But the elves of Arlathan would never have used demons." Rielle walked slowly around the mirror, examining the frame.

"We don't think they did. We think they had the help of other spirits, like the one who possesses Anders."

Rielle thought about it. "You're suggesting that blood magic used to call spirits?"

"I'm suggesting that not only was the Fade corrupted by the magisters of old, but spirits were as well."

It was an interesting idea, but now was not the time for debate. "How does this help us, Connor?"

He swept his arm over the glade, eyes blazing in triumph. "Don't you see? I've created a door in the Fade . . . a passage to another place. Rielle, I can help the magi. I can bring them to me."

Understanding shone as bright as the Eluvian: an escape for her people. Without them, Lutherain held no advantage.

"Connor, we don't have much time. Lutherain knows we have him surrounded, and he's willing to kill to keep us at bay. Can you get them out tonight?"

"All of them in one night?" Connor bit his lower lip, thinking. "I can try, but I can't guarantee everyone's safety. They have to be willing to follow me, trust me . . . like you did."

"Try, Connor." She squinted into the light, struggling to see what lay on the other side. "This is possible with only one mirror?"

"Not easily. Not without blood magic. But yes, I can do it."

"Then do it. Save them, Connor."

Even as she said his name, the Fade was dissolving, dissipating like a fine mist. Within moments, she could feel the bedroll beneath her, the ground hard and unyielding. Anders lay beside her, an arm draped possessively over her hip. She started to wake him, but thought better of it.

_Can he really do it?_ Such a feat seemed impossible now that the Eluvian had disappeared along with her dream. If she hadn't seen the red lyrium for herself and felt the power emanating from it, she would never have believed.  _There's nothing more I can do in any case. Except hope._

* * *

It was not easy. Weaving through the Fade and feeling for the dreams of his colleagues trapped in the Tower took time and patience, and he did not have much of the first. Then the connection, the shimmer of reality when one mind merged with another, was exhausting. A few refused to believe him and turned him away, thinking he was just a demon trying to coerce them. The others came warily, skeptical right up until they saw the Eluvian blazing in the gloom. He did not see their faces as they passed through. Instead, he turned back, trusting Merrill to welcome them while he searched for the next dream.

He knew his time was up when no more dreams could be found. Either the remaining mages were dead or they had awoken, leaving the Fade behind. By then, he was barely able to stand, drained both mentally and physically. As he returned to the Eluvian with the intention of entering, he was surprised to see a dark figure, its features shrouded in shadow, hovering beside the mirror. He hesitated, frozen in uncertainty.

"So you are the mortal who manipulates the Fade." The voice was scratchy, a whispery hiss. "Somehow, I expected . . . more."

He was too exhausted to fight this creature. Was it the same demon who had possessed him before? If so, it looked different.

"What do you want?"

The shadows swirled and a set of eyes appeared, burning with an emerald glow. "You do not know? It was my assistance that enabled you to create this portal."

His fingers itched for his staff, but he had not been able to bring it into the Fade. "You're Merrill's demon?"

Its laugh crackled loudly through the Fade. "Rather you should say she is my mortal."

The implications made him shudder. "And why are you here? Did she ask you to come?"

"She does not control my movements here, human. I came to look upon the one who wields the power of Arlathan. It has been long since the light touched the dark."

"So elves did tread here before?"

"Long ago, when the spirit world was alive and the city golden with the power of the ancient ones. The elder elves would sleep and wander here among paths made for their delight. They rested and dreamed, and their dreams fed this world." As it spoke, the dark shape began to assume a form vaguely resembling a man, but with elongated limbs. "Then the foolish mortals came, twisting this world with their malice and ego. They sought to be gods and perished for their arrogance."

Connor gazed off into the distance where the Black City lay, far out of reach. No matter where he went in the Fade, it always appeared distant and cold. "Can anything be done to return this world to what it was before?"

"Perhaps. The elves have lost their way and forgotten their legacy. Until they regain it, corruption shall reign." The demon drifted closer. "I can feel the power within you, barely touched. Why do you depend on the elf named Merrill?"

"I am not a blood mage," said Connor. "And I do not wish to be."

"Blood mage? Is that what you call it? I much prefer to describe it as a partnership. Let me provide the spark to your tinder." The shadow wavered and stretched out a limb, blackened and twisted. "With my assistance you would have magic beyond even the magisters. You would need no one, and no one would stand against you. Do you wish to save magi? With my help, you can destroy the templars easily."

The temptation was great and he was so very tired. He could end all of this with merely a nod. Then he remembered Anders. Had he also been in this predicament?  _And now a spirit possesses him._

"No. Bringing you into the world is not the solution. Go back where you came from."

The creature's hiss set his teeth on edge. "You are as foolish as the other mortals. Go then." It moved away from the mirror and hovered at the edge of the clearing. "The elf has called me to help and I shall, but someday I will require repayment." The shadows dispersed, wisps of black scattering into the gloom.

Didn't the use of magic always demand a price? With a weary sigh, Connor passed into the brightness of the mirror. Seconds later, the Eluvian shimmered and winked out, taking the colors with it. Bereft of vibrancy, the plants withered to dust, with the exception of a single red bloom where the mirror had stood.

* * *

The templar laid prone, his neck twisted unnaturally, while blood seeped sluggishly from beneath his still body. A splash of blood painted the wall nearby just above where his helmet lay. Rielle winced as she stepped gingerly over the body, averting her eyes from his sightless stare.

_Edward._

Another templar lay crumpled against the entrance to the stairwell, his broadsword still clutched in a deathless grip. His helmet covered his face, but Rielle recognized the auburn braid lying across one shoulder, smeared in blood.

_Theo._

She clung to the railing along the wall as she descended, dizzy with the weight of guilt and death.  _I should have stayed instead of running with Connor._  She knew these men, had worked with them and Greagoir to keep the peace. Then Lutherain came with his poison and turned them against the magi.  _He would have locked me up with the rest of the magi. There's nothing I could have done._  If only her heart would believe what her mind knew.

The basement was dank and cold, already saturated with the smell of blood and death. She shivered, drawing her cloak around her like a shield, although nothing would erase the sight that awaited her.

At least history would record that Lutherain had started the battle, not Rielle. When she had approached the Tower at dawn for one last parley, the templars had attacked. Banking on Connor's success, she had hoped Lutherain would see reason and stand down if his hostages were gone. Instead, he had commanded his men to open fire while screaming that every mage was dead. Protected by her own shield, as well as by Hawke and Anders, Rielle remained unscathed as her army charged the Tower.

Magic tore the main gate down, and the battle commenced. Rielle and the other magi kept to the back, out of range of smite spells, working to heal and shield the men and women at the front. Time ceased to exist among the familiar routine of casting and consuming lyrium potions. She barely noticed when she entered the Tower, and it was not until a strong hand grabbed her arm that she paused to look around.

"It's done, lass. You can stop casting." Startled, she looked down to see the dwarf named Varric squinting up at her.

_Done?_

She ran a shaky hand through her hair while scanning her surroundings. They were on the first floor of the Tower outside the apprentice barracks. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, most wearing the armor of the templars. People from her army were slowly moving from body to body, looting what they could. She felt nauseated.

"Where's Anders?"

"I think someone mentioned him going downstairs to the cells. They said he was looking for mage survivors." Varric wiped his bloody sleeve across his forehead. "Not a bad fight, eh? Especially considering we were at a disadvantage."

Having walked through the carnage to reach the basement, Rielle couldn't have said there was anything  _good_  about the fight. Lives had been needlessly lost on both sides.  _Because the Divine sent Lutherain, hoping to start a fight like this._  It didn't make sense.

Lutherain had screamed that the magi were all dead. What if Connor had failed? Urgency drove her to the basement, into the small block of cells.

She found him in the last cell. Anders knelt motionless among six robed bodies, his head bowed. The other cells were empty.  _There should be twenty-eight. Connor got some out at least._ The remaining six bore slit throats. She fell to her knees next to Anders, overwhelmed with grief.

"They were slaughtered like animals." The deep voice was not Anders's, and she skittered back against the wall as Anders lifted his head, glowing blue eyes boring into hers. "The templars deserved their deaths."

She calmed her nerves, returning his gaze with a glare. "Justice, where is Anders?"

"He is here, grieving." The spirit cocked his head, appearing to study her. "Your people have taken prisoners. This is wrong. The templars all deserve to die."

She had ordered that any templar who surrendered be allowed to live. Upstairs, her people herded them into a classroom until their fate was decided.

"That is for Alistair to decide, not us."

"Anders wishes them dead. I can hear his thoughts."

"Anders is not your puppet to control, Justice. Is it right to take over another's body?"

"He invited me." Justice closed his eyes. "I cannot leave him, Warden. I have tried when it became clear I was causing him grief. It is not possible." He bowed his head once more. "Anders will grow more unstable as time continues. The human mind is not capable of juggling two beings."

"Then you must leave him!"

"I cannot. I am sorry."

Anders's body shuddered violently, limbs jerking in seizure. Rielle rushed to his side, but her lover had already stilled.

"Anders?"

Brown eyes opened and met hers. Anders ran a shaky hand over his face.

"Sorry. I . . . I lost control for just a minute. Justice didn't misbehave did he?"

He did not remember, which meant he likely had not heard Justice's warning.  _I will find a way to save you, love. Whatever it takes._

"He was fine. Let's get upstairs and see what healing is needed." She gave him a hand and helped him up. He gave the dead magi one last sorrowful look, and she squeezed his shoulder.

"Would you believe me if I told you the rest fled last night right under Lutherain's nose?"

When he raised a confused eyebrow, she took his hand and led him to the stairs.

"Let me tell you about my dream last night . . . ."

They had just reached the top, Rielle explaining about the Eluvian, when interruption arrived in the form of a tall, blond, very bloody elf. Sweat streaked tracks through the dried blood on Fenris's face, and his eyes were desperate.

"Hawke is dying."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay! Thanks to all who comment and kudos . . . you guys keep me writing. Special thanks to Zevgirl for her excellent feedback and editing. Enjoy!

Fenris had barely found them in time.  When Rielle and Anders rushed into the entrance hall of the Tower, Lia lay very still, breathing in faint gasps.  She had taken a deep laceration in her thigh with a sword, severing the femoral artery.  Blood pooled sluggishly by her legs, and her skin waxed gray.  Someone had the good sense to wrap a tourniquet at the groin, although a steady stream of crimson slid from beneath.  Rielle checked the pulse at her neck, while Anders crouched next to her.

 

"Barely there."  Rielle fumbled with her belt, dumping her bag of lyrium potions across the flagstones.

 

Anders tore a slit up Hawke's robe, exposing the wound.  Instantly, a gauntleted hand wrapped around his wrist in a vise.

 

"You will not touch her, Abomination."

 

Anders glared up at Fenris.  "Are you seriously going to prevent me from saving her life?"

 

"The Ferelden First Enchanter can do what needs done."

 

"The First Enchanter can't."  Rielle was busy probing the wound, not sparing a glance for the furious elf.  "If you want her to live, I'll need all the help I can get, and Anders is the best we have."

 

Fenris released Anders's wrist, biting his lower lip while gazing at the wound.  Anders rubbed his wrist vigorously, glowering at Fenris as the elf shifted his attention from Lia's pale face back to Anders.  His teeth set in a grimace, Fenris finally nodded, stepping back.

 

"About time," Anders muttered.  He drew a lyrium flask from his belt and downed it quickly before placing his hands over the ragged tear.  Rielle placed her hands likewise over his, and a blue glow surrounded Hawke's leg.

 

The outflow of mana rippled through Fenris's markings, but he ignored them, refusing to back away.  Standing next to Anders, he stood watch, hissing at anyone who approached.  Desperation lent an unhealthy shine to his eyes, a better deterrent than his massive sword.

 

Time passed, yet Fenris barely felt his exhaustion until Rielle touched his shoulder.  He nearly toppled in surprise, chastising himself for failing to notice her.

 

"We've done what we can." 

 

Fenris glanced past her at Anders leaning against the stone wall, head down. 

 

"The wound is mended, but she lost a lot of blood and there may be infection.  I assume you will watch over her?"  Her tone brooked no argument, and she continued without an answer.  "Carry her to the apprentice barracks over there," she said, pointing down the hall.  "I'll bring you some potions to prevent infection."  She went to Anders, murmuring softly while Fenris bent to pick up Hawke.

 

So light!  Had she always been so thin?  He could feel her bones against his chest and arms.  Her breath was easy, but her skin was a ghostly white.  He entered the barracks, ignoring the other warriors milling around.  After easing her onto a pallet, he sat cross-legged next to her bed, removing his sword.  Blood dulled the blade . . . templar's blood.  Almost, he had reached Hawke in time, but the templar had moved inhumanly fast, perhaps bolstered by a stamina potion.  As Hawke raised her arms in attack, the templar lunged down, slitting open her leg.  She collapsed, the templar’s head following, smitten from his shoulders by Fenris's blade.

 

He barely reacted when Rielle returned with two vials of liquid.  He nodded at her instructions, his eyes never leaving the prostrate form on the bed.  It wasn't until a large bowl of water was dropped by him, the water sloshing over his bare feet, that he glanced up to find Isabela standing over him, hands on hips.

 

"I thought you might want to clean up a bit."  She tossed a clean rag onto his lap.  "I can't enjoy such masculine beauty when it's covered in templar stink, you know."

 

He looked down at himself but made no move to reach for the rag.  She shrugged.

 

"How's Hawke?"

 

Fenris was shocked to see genuine concern on the tanned, exotic face above.

 

"Stable for now."  His voice sounded cracked, much like his soul.

 

Isabela looked at him carefully, and then jerked her chin toward Hawke.  "You staying with her this time?"

 

"This time?"

 

"Yeah, this time.  As opposed to Kirkwall, when you walked away from her and left her in shreds."

 

"I did not leave.  I helped kill Meredith."  The unfairness of her accusation brought back the anger.  Anger was better than numbness.

 

"You helped us, but you left _her_."

 

Isabela did not need a bow to shoot an accurate arrow.  Fenris blanched as if she had slapped him.  Isabela knelt, resting on the balls of her feet, and looked him square in the eye.

 

"You've maybe got a second chance.  Don't blow it."

 

With that, she rose and turned away, tunic swaying with her hips as she left.

 

For many minutes, Fenris sat frozen, staring into the bowl of water.  His face stared back, features grotesquely distorted.  _Like the monster I've become._   He removed his gauntlets and dipping his hands in the water, he drew them over his face, washing away blood and bitterness.

 

He rose to his knees and began to wash Hawke, ignoring his own filthiness.  From her head, down her neck, across her arms, and over her legs, he drew the wet rag.  The water turned rusty with blood, but her skin washed clean.  Finished, he propped her in one arm, and carefully dribbled the potion down her throat, satisfied when she swallowed reflexively.  Settling her in the cot, he covered her with a blanket.

 

As the victors continued to mill around the Tower, Fenris leaned back against the bed, closing his eyes.  Rielle and Anders would take care of restructuring the Tower.  His place was here, with his heart.

 

* * *

 

 

_It is ironic, given his prowess in battle, that King Alistair Theirin's greatest accomplishment in history books will always be his actions after the Battle of West Hill.  He assisted Rielle Surana in uniting Ferelden and destroying the Archdemon.  He commanded the Ferelden army in the Battle of West Hill and led his men into battle himself.  The commoners loved him because his mother was one of them.  He championed the mages and raised the status of the city elves.  There were many reasons to call him a great king._

_Yet, if you mingle in Denerim's taverns or listen to the gossip in the marketplace, you will hear little about Alistair's deeds.  Perhaps in the future, when this generation has passed, the important things will matter.  But now?  Everyone, noble or commoner, loves a good romance, and it cannot be denied that Alistair's choice of lover was very unusual for a king._

_Zevran Arainai, while not as well known in Ferelden as in Antiva, had made a name for himself for his part in ending the Fifth Blight.  Then he disappeared, and Ferelden forgot him.  Antiva did not.  After Zevran demolished several Crow cells and wreaked havoc on the Guild, the masters decided a truce was in order.  To their surprise, he refused to become a master and went his own way, taking difficult contracts and becoming something of a legend.  His skills in seduction only added to his reputation, and his bed was rarely empty.  If he missed Rielle Surana, with whom he had been rumored to share a bed, he gave no indication, and none of his romances lasted._

_No one knows why he returned to Ferelden after Anora's death, but according to my father, he appeared quite suddenly, enlisting as Alistair's bodyguard.  Alistair's son took to him wholeheartedly, much to my father's disapproval.  Seneschal Eamon has ever been wary of elves.  When I tried to get more information from him, he refused to speak about the "outlandish elf who turned Alistair's head._ _”  Always, he has regretted that Alistair did not take a wife._

_I myself know little of the assassin who claimed Alistair's heart and fueled many a steamy conversation among Denerim's women.  My clearest memory of Zevran is the day of the meeting in which Anders was pardoned of his crimes and Oghren brought word of Marjolaine's capture.  That morning I was about early and happened to wander near the training yard.  Alistair and Zevran were sparring, and the sight was mesmerizing.  I had seen templars practice before, but these two were on an entirely different level.  They had obviously dueled many times, their steps an intricate dance, their swords flashing in a rhythm only they understood._

_I must confess their kiss surprised me, but the look they exchanged affected me even more._

_Whenever I think of them now, that is the picture I carry in my head:  understanding, acceptance, joy in the balance they created for each other.  Whatever they shared, it gave Alistair the incentive to defy both tradition and my father.  Neither is a battle easily won._

_\--_ From the Journals of First Mage Representative, Connor Guerrin

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sheets were stifling, suffocating him in a cloud of angst and worry.  Alistair threw them off, sitting up to escape the thoughts keeping him from sleep.  The night air felt cool on his bare skin, and his gaze went to the open window, where curtains rustled softly in the spring breeze.  He ran his fingers through rumpled hair, letting out the day's frustration in a weary sigh.  Sleep had eluded him far too easily this past week, and he felt the toll in every part of his body.

 

The last of the Bannorn had arrived that morning, and he had busily welcomed the various lords and ladies to his castle, assuring them he had just cause for calling them to Denerim during planting season.  Although they addressed him respectfully, their displeasure at being summoned was blatantly obvious.  _Wait until they hear what is coming to Ferelden's borders, and we have barely recovered from the Blight._

 

When several Banns expressed their desire to leave directly after the meeting, Alistair had to bite his lip to keep from threatening to throw them in the dungeon.  _Do they think I called them here over something trivial?_ Instead, he forced a smile, assuring them they would have a comfortable room as long as they wished to stay.  _Until I give them permission to leave._

 

He was edgy and impatient, as Seneschal Eamon observed at dinner.

 

"Do not fidget quite so much, Alistair," he hissed under his breath from Alistair's left at the massive oak dining table.  All around, the nobility chattered gaily, unaware of the chastening Alistair was receiving.  "And try to smile just a little."

 

Alistair stabbed a piece of ham with his fork.  "I've listened to complaints all day about my summons.  Sorry if I'm not feeling exactly social."

 

"Well, honestly, can you blame them?  They have no idea why they have been asked to come during a busy time of year, and they may be furious when you inform them tomorrow they are here because of a mere rumor."

 

Alistair turned his head so fast he nearly choked on the meat.  Coughing discreetly into a napkin, he shot Eamon a glare.  "A rumor?  Is that what you think this is?  You were there!  Did you not hear Hawke's story, or Oghren's?"

 

"We have no real proof.  If Orlais hears of us preparing for war when they mean none, we shall look like fools!"

 

Alistair carefully placed his napkin beside his plate and scooted his chair back.  The loud squeak echoed through the hall, resulting in sudden hush as all eyes turned to the King.

 

"If you will all excuse me, I'm feeling a bit tired tonight.  I will join you tomorrow after lunch for the meeting, and your reason for being here shall be explained.  Thank you for coming and enjoy your dinner."

 

Without a glance at Eamon, Alistair rose and exited the hall, hands clenched at his sides.  He barely made it into his suite before turning abruptly, punching the wall next to the door.

 

Now, hours later, his knuckles throbbed, but he welcomed the pain.  If only it would distract him from the real reason he was so short of temper.

 

_Zevran._

 

The assassin had been gone several weeks now, and each day left Alistair feeling more anxious.  He knew Zevran was capable of taking care of himself, but he could not stop the worry.  What if the Crows changed their minds, deciding Orlais's money was more important than one troublesome elf?  What if Orlais tried to rescue their bard and killed Zevran in the process?  When he did sleep, dark dreams followed him, and he woke to an empty bed, alone and aching.

 

Tomorrow was important, and he needed rest if he was going to face the Bannorn and convince them to ready for war.  Adjusting his pillow, he started to lie back down when the curtain jerked slightly, giving him pause.  An elongated shadow in the shape of a hand appeared briefly, and then withdrew from sight.  By then, Alistair was already on his feet, reaching under the mattress for his blade.

 

The curtain rustled again, and leather soles appeared underneath.  _So quiet,_ Alistair thought in alarm.  _If I were asleep, I would never have heard it._   In a single fluid leap, he was across the room, sword raised before him with the tip directly against the curtain.

 

"Come out."  _Dammit, I'm not even dressed._

 

He thought he had the upper hand, was so _sure._   However, the figure who jumped out came from the other side of the window, dropping to a roll, and somersaulting across the floor in bare feet.  Alistair was left pointing his sword at a pair of empty boots, and swiveling to find a dagger racing by his head, burying itself in the wall next to the window.  He stared in astonishment at his attacker, who smirked while shaking his head.

 

" _Tsk_ , Alistair.  You are still much too slow.  Have you not been practicing?"

 

The sword dropped from his trembling fingers, clattering to the floor.

 

"I lost my partner."  Alistair could not help it.  He knew he was grinning like a fool.

 

The smile faded from Zevran's lips, and in two strides he was _there_ , his mouth on Alistair's, his hands pushing the larger man against the wall.  Alistair could do little more than drown in the kiss that quickly went from _hello_ to sheer _need._

 

Nothing mattered . . . not the Bannorn or the threat of war, because in that moment, Alistair was whole again.  Taking control, he grabbed Zevran by the arms, maneuvering him to the bed, where he gently laid the elf back and took full stock of his lover.

 

_Zev._

He knew immediately something was wrong.  The smile was real, but those eyes . . . they were shuttered and locked.  It was the mask Zevran wore when hiding his thoughts, the mask Alistair had seen so often during the Blight.

_What happened?_

He did not get the chance to ask.  While he hesitated, Zevran sidled out from under Alistair, shoving him roughly down and taking Alistair’s place at the foot of the bed.  His eyes never left Alistair's as he slowly began to undress, dropping his clothes at his feet one at a time.  Alistair propped himself up on his elbows to watch, admiring Zevran's physique in the dim light from the window.  The smirk returned to Zevran's face as he watched Alistair's body respond with alacrity.  Discarding his underclothes, Zevran crawled back on the bed on hands and knees, his moves sinuous and predatory.

 

"Did you miss me, _mi querido_?"

 

An endearing question, but it came across too smooth, as if practiced.  There was something brittle in Zevran’s poise, something poisoned in his eyes.  Alarmed, Alistair bit back words of concern, remembering Zevran’s wariness with emotions.  He chose instead to use touch, to give Zevran a more active way to release whatever darkness lay buried within.  Grabbing him by the hips, Alistair hauled him closer until Zevran's cock dangled tantalizingly above his face.  Holding him in a bruising grip, Alistair swallowed him desperately, his need meshing with his desire to bring back the lover he remembered.

 

Zevran gasped, jerking his hips reflexively, and Alistair shifted his hands down to Zevran's buttocks, holding him close while stroking his tongue firmly up the underside of the elf's cock.  Precome oozed across his tongue, and he eased back to lick the slit appreciatively, coaxing more fluid out.

 

Zevran groaned and sat back on his knees so that he was looking down at Alistair's face, at the worshipful concentration Alistair utilized in giving Zevran pleasure.  He reached down to stroke Alistair’s cheek, and Alistair flicked his eyes to Zevran, struggling to focus through a blissful haze.  _There._ Zevran’s brow was furrowed, his mouth soft, and he gazed at Alistair with a sort of wonder.  _You will not run from me, Zevran._ Straining his neck, Alistair took Zevran deeper, wishing he could draw out the poison as easily as his lover’s seed.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Too fast . . . it was going much too fast, and he still _needed_.  Shuddering with the intensity of Alistair’s attentions, Zevran threw his head back in agony.  For weeks, he had existed in a void of his own making, blanketing his memories and feelings to keep the darkness at bay.  This sudden assault from Alistair, this evidence of pure desire that surpassed mere physicality . . . it was too _much._ It crashed through him like an avalanche, ripping away the walls he had carefully constructed that night in Amaranthine.  Soothing fingers caressed between his buttocks, and he was lost, pressure building within his groin, his hips moving in small aborted thrusts so as not to choke Alistair.

 

His orgasm, when it came, sliced through him swift and intense.  Blinded, he cried out as Alistair swallowed and swallowed as if he had not drunk in days.  Still, it was not _enough_.  Blood and screams hovered just beyond his vision, clawing their way from the ruins of their prison.

 

He pulled back, his semi-hard cock popping from Alistair's mouth as he scooted down.  Ignoring Alistair's look of confusion, he reached behind himself to grasp that magnificent erection, to position himself just so . . . .

 

"Zevran, I haven't prepared you yet."

 

"I don't want it, _mi amor_.”  _I don_ _’t deserve such care, my love._ “ _This_ is what I wish."  _This is what is required.  Pain received for pain given.  It is just._

 

"No!  I will not hurt you."  Alistair shook his head, frowning.

 

Zevran closed his eyes, shaking his head as he began to bear down.  "I _need_ this, Alistair . . . ."

 

His hand was snatched away, and suddenly he was on his back, arms pinned to the bed.  Angry, he pushed back, but Alistair had always been stronger.

 

"No."  Alistair lowered his forehead to Zevran's.  "No, it's _not_ what you need."

 

Still struggling, Zevran opened his mouth to protest, but Alistair was there, claiming him with a kiss, devouring his shouts until they were nothing more than moans.

 

He could not flee from the love pouring into him, surrounding him with caresses instead of the pain he craved _._   Alistair was relentless, covering every inch of Zevran's skin with warmth and acceptance.  Zevran was not sure at what point he finally relented, likely when teeth nipped at the tip of his ears, when soft words penetrated the void in his soul.  Gentle, oiled fingers entered him repeatedly, stretching and rubbing over his prostate until he writhed, begged, _promised_ , not to fight anymore.

 

When Alistair finally entered him, he cried out in relief and astonishment.  How had Alistair known what he had not?  This _was_ what he had needed since that dark night spent in a dungeon doing what needed done.  With every hard thrust, Alistair purged the shadows from his mind, the ghosts from his past.  Zevran screamed until his voice broke, until only whimpers remained, and Alistair took those with his mouth, kissing Zevran with rough desperation.  When the tide crested, not even Zevran with his expert control could stop it as he came a second time, the sheer strength of it cleansing every taint from his heart.

 

It was enough.

 

He lost time then, for a short while, drifting in an almost unconscious state as his mind sought reconnection with his body.  When finally he opened his eyes, he was on his back, head pillowed on Alistair's arm with his lover curled around him.  At some point, Alistair must have cleaned him, for he felt no residual stickiness, and a clean sheet covered them both.  Fingers moved slowly through his hair, smoothing the long strands back from his face.  When he turned his head, he found Alistair watching him, eyes filled with concern.

 

"Zev?"  So many words spoken in a single syllable.

 

How to express the joy of being awakened from an endless nightmare?  How to explain the rawness at the back of his throat, the residue of self-loathing washed clean?  Almost tentatively, he reached out and drew his thumb softly across Alistair’s lips.

 

“ _S_ _ì, amor._   I am well.”

 

Alistair studied him in silence for a moment, twining blond locks between his fingers.  "Was the prisoner Marjolaine?"

 

"A more unsanitary version of the woman, to be sure, but still recognizable as Leliana's former mentor, yes."

 

Another silence, and then, very softly, "Is she dead?"

 

"She attempted to kill you, Alistair.  I would never have tolerated her to live."

 

There could be no response to the vehemence in those words.  Instead, Alistair reached down to pull the blanket over both of them, a warmth to chase away the chill, a small delay to the question he must ask.

 

"What information did she give you, Zevran?"

 

Zevran returned to his back but sidled closer to Alistair.  "Orlais is coming, my King.  They have been preparing since the Archdemon's death.  The Divine believes it is Orlais's dutyto unite Thedas into one religion.  The Empress, so says the Divine, must be the voice of the Maker.  Her armies will be the hand of Andraste, saving Ferelden from the filth of heathens.  Once Ferelden is conquered, the Maker shall bless Orlais with the strength to capture the Free Marches as well.  Eventually, Thedas will shine under the light of the Empress’s power, and peace shall reign in the Maker’s kingdom.”

 

"How poetic,” said Alistair, grimacing.  “I take it the Empress is easily convinced."

 

"Her lover is very persuasive, I’m sure."

 

"The Divine and the Empress are lovers?"  _That_ was not expected.

 

"Power attracts power, does it not?"

 

It did indeed.  "What did Anora's death have to do with this?  Or mine?  Was the Divine hoping to replace us with people of her own choice?"

 

"No.  Your death was to cause chaos.  With the royal family dead, it would take time to settle the matter of a new leader.  Ferelden would focus on its problem, not its borders.  Marjolaine failed in this task, however, and turned to her next assignment."

 

"How would discrediting Commander Howe help?"

 

"Nathaniel Howe was only important in that he was commander of the Wardens.  The Divine could not be certain that the Wardens would remain impartial.  By setting the nobles against Howe and the Wardens, she hoped to create enough unrest to keep the Wardens busy and less apt to come to Ferelden's aid."

 

"Which they are bound by oath to do anyway."  Alistair threw his arm over his eyes.  "And the problems at the Tower?  More chaos, I presume."

 

"Not only that but with the mages imprisoned, you would lack their assistance . . . a valuable asset in a war, no?"

 

Alistair swore softly.  "I am not sorry you killed her.  If only the Divine was within my reach."

 

Zevran thought of Leliana, making her way west.  "She will have her reckoning, _mi amor_.  One way or another."  _If not by Leli's hand, the point of my dagger shall suffice._

He watched as Alistair sat up, tucking his knees under his chin.  "I have a meeting with the Bannorn tomorrow.  Scouts shall be sent to our western and northern borders.  I do not know how long we have, but they will know Marjolaine has been taken.  We don't dare delay too long."

 

"If you would hear my advice, give the Bannorn a week to send their messages home and muster their men."

 

"A week won't be long enough.  Men are slow to raise arms and leave their homes."  Alistair rubbed at the scruff along his jaw.  "I'll give them two and then we head west.  Whoever hasn't arrived will have to meet us there."

 

Zevran pulled Alistair back down.  “Tomorrow shall arrive too soon, my King.  Rest now, while the moon yet lingers."

 

Neither slept.  When the stars faded, they rose together and watched the dawn break.  The pale sky flushed ruby red, bloody claws streaming east to west.  War had come.

 

 

* * *


End file.
